The Obscure Mind
by LeahxLeah
Summary: A case fiction with Sherlock and John based on the New Series, season one. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

The Obscure Mind

Chapter One

Even before John opened his eyes, he knew what he would see out the window. The scene would be the exact same as yesterday, and the day before that. The sky would be the same shade of grey, the London cityscape still peering in at him through his window. It hadn't moved, or changed, from yesterday or the day before that.

It had been different in Afghanistan. There, when he opened his eyes, the scene he would see from his window was never the same. The first night he'd spent over there, after he'd been deployed, he was alarmed to find that the building he'd seen in the darkness the night before was no longer perched at eye-level with his room. Instead, it had been lying in a smoldering heap far beneath him. In the first month, it had seemed like no structure was impervious to whatever bomb had been placed inside. The yellow stucco buildings that clawed at the clear blue horizon crumbled and were rebuilt elsewhere, until the only thing John had, in terms of familiar scenery, was the cloudless sky, the heat and the sounds of every-day life merged with the occasional scream of terror.

But the London that he knew, the London that he'd grown up in, never changed. New buildings were built so slowly that John already knew of their presence before they'd been finished. At first, when he'd returned, the colorless scene was enough to drain the life out of him. It was clear that that was what had happened to everybody else, their faces pale and lifeless. It reminded him of a horror movie, with zombies wandering lifelessly from street to street, seeing only what was right in front of them, only what image was directly in front of their eyes. Lines and wrinkles began to etch in their faces, and John had thought he was safe until he looked in the mirror one day. _Bloody hell,_ he'd thought. He'd been back only a few months and already London had aged him, left its mark on his face. Eventually, he realized that he missed Afghanistan. He _missed_ the hellish casualties of war, the sensation of adrenaline pumping through his veins instead of seeing the world through a veil of drowsiness. He thought he was sick. He had to be, to miss that world of pain and confusion over the security and serenity of London. Slowly, as his disability pension began to whittle away, he wondered if he should seek help from his therapist. Tell her he was suffering from more than just the ghostly pain of a long healed injury; tell her that he hated being a civilian. But he couldn't. The moment he reached out and trusted her- a therapist, of all people- was the moment they locked him up. And while John despised the hollowness of the city, the hollowness of a mental institution was ten times worse. So he struggled on for yet another month, feeling as though he was drowning in a pool, with his lips only a centimeter from the surface, so close that he could feel the air. But every time he opened his mouth to inhale the oh- so- sweet oxygen, water filled his lungs instead, and he sunk even deeper beneath the surface.

But, despite the limitations of science, for every disease, there is a cure. The only thing he regretted was that the cure to his particular ailment was yet another ailment. And for John, that cure happened to be Sherlock.

So when he opened his eyes, it wasn't the familiar sight of the city that etched itself into his sleep filled eyes, but a familiar pale face that was hanging just inches above his. He blinked slowly, letting the sleep drift gently from his eyes, and then shut them for a moment or two. When he reopened them he was met by the same face, this time a few centimeters closer. He leaned back into his pillow, content with the warmth of his sheets. He stared into the ghostly grey eyes that met his own, the insipid, near flawless flesh that swept across high cheek bones down to a firm pair of lips that were a shade too light. His eyes traced up to the other man's forehead, where thick, dark brown curls hung heavily. The face leaned in closer, yet again, this time with several long fingers attached to a hand. The fingers landed gently around his mouth, and began to pry it open.

Finally, John broke the silence. "Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock's pale eyelids covered part of his eyes as he peered down into John's open mouth. "Gathering research for an experiment," he said, his voice coarse and deep.

"You should have told me you were questioning you're sexuality before you asked me to be your flat mate," John retorted, watching the other man's face for a response.

"Not that kind of an experiment, John."

"Ah," John paused for a moment, "Does this have something to do with the decapitated head in the fridge?"  
Sherlock snorted, a smile playing on the corners of his lips. "That really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"We put _food_ in the fridge, _not _body parts. We've had this conversation before."

"You don't complain about the skull on the fireplace."

"Freddie? Nah, he's alright."

Sherlock muttered something under his breath, sticking his fingers further into John's mouth. He tilted his head slightly to the side before saying, "Thought so." He then withdrew himself from John, dusted his pajamas off, and corrected his body position.

"Yes, this does have something to do with the head in the fridge. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death, and it occurred to me that I don't have a living test subject to compare it to."

"You couldn't use yourself?"

"I was collecting my own saliva for about an hour in my mouth, but then Mrs. Hudson surprised me and I accidentally swallowed."

John chuckled under his breath. "Well, you can't use me. Don't you have any other friends you could ask?"

"Freddie no longer produces any saliva."

John sighed. Sherlock had a difficult time connecting with the rest of humanity, his mind being miles ahead of everyone else's. The world looked different from his eyes. When everybody else went through life with tunnel vision, Sherlock had a 360 view of the action. He could see through everyone and anything in seconds, based on the type of dirt under their fingernails, the date set on their watch, and the type of fabric their clothes were made of. Things no one else even considered were the first things that popped into his head, and while John saw him as nothing short of genius, the rest of the world thought of him more as a freak. He'd learned, however, that Sherlock didn't care. People weren't important to him. He didn't have any friends besides John, and because of that, people were quick to assume they were dating. It was hard to believe that Sherlock had a "friendly" relationship with anyone.

"You'll just have to pay someone, then."

Sherlock nodded swiftly, agreeing with him. Morning was the only time Sherlock agreed with him, before he had his coffee and wasn't awake enough to argue. He then pulled out his phone from his pants pocket, and began texting as he left the room. John sighed slightly before gently stepping out of bed, glancing briefly at his thoroughly bruised hands before pulling on a shirt and heading downstairs.

Unlike Sherlock, John was a morning person. The moment light pooled through his window and began to warm his sheets he felt safe. His blankets felt crisp and soft, and everything was quiet. It meant another thing, also. Back in Afghanistan, it meant that he'd lived to see another day.

The apartment they shared was a mess, as always, due to Sherlock's occasional moments of hyperactive behavior when he was bored. The smiley face he'd sprayed on the wall with yellow spray paint was still hovering with a high amount of contrast to the rest of the almost Victorian era wallpaper, and bullet holes still left it with a pock-marked complexion. Finding Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, he commented, "Just to be clear, you're paying for the wall."

"It's not my fault I was bored."

"There are other things to do besides shooting the wall."

"I already put mascara and lipstick on you while you slept. There really wasn't anything left to do."

John made a bee line for the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup carefully.

"How are your hands?" Sherlock asked.

John scowled. "Remind me not to argue with walls."

"That sore? You usually love punching walls."

John nodded. "Sore and tired."

Sherlock smirked. "I'd help you out with that little problem, but I think that would be crossing the line as friends."

"Mmm. I'd stick to solving crime, Sherlock, and give up your career as a comedian."

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft said the same thing." Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, and "arch enemy". While John could hardly say he was on the same page as his sister, he could never say they hated each other. At least not on the same level as the Holmes brothers. The two of them couldn't be in the same room as each other without Sherlock wrinkling up his face in dislike, and Mycroft frowning with an air of superiority. John figured that Mycroft's personality likely was created by his high position of authority in the British Government, or maybe was just born like that. It wouldn't be far reached to say that personality issues ran in the family.

Shuffling into the living room, John sat in his favourite, firm red chair, which faced the windows, unconcealed by curtains for once. The air outside was so cold that he could see it as it came out in muddled clouds exhaled from the passerby's beneath them. The stillness of the apartment was gentle, and if John held his breath, the only sounds he could hear were Sherlock's breathing and the dust settling. Neither of them spoke, and both of their minds drifted into separate worlds. The moment John let his eyes slip closed, he could feel the heat of the desert and blowing sands biting into what exposed skin was left on his body. The texture of his chair shifted until it no longer felt soft and warm but metallic and cool, the sensation he received when touching his gun. The cold, bitter grey of London was yanked away from him and he was lost in a country hundreds of miles away. He could feel the movements of his squad around him, and he was aware of every one of their actions. He'd left fear behind him about a kilometer back, and he no longer thought of death as an enemy or a threat; it was just the inevitable. It made no sense to be scared. He was a soldier. He was here to make a difference, and if he died… well, game over. Life wasn't really life if all you thought about was death. It was just precursor to whatever world lay beyond it if the end was all you could visualize. John had every intention to live in the moment he was living in now. To remember the colour of the door before he kicked it in. To remember the faces as he pushed passed them, looking for his mark. To remember finding him, pulling the trigger and hearing the shot. He had never wanted to remember hearing the screams ripping through the air. But six months later, sitting in his flat, John couldn't remember the colour of the door he kicked in. He couldn't remember pushing past people or looking for his mark. He didn't remember pulling the trigger or hearing the shot. Every time he closed his eyes, however, he remembered the screams. They still echoed in his head, and every time he heard a similar sound, he was launched back into a war he had only just left.

He had a hard time believing that they were only fighting the war overseas, because he could still hear the sounds of gunshots in his ears.

A hand landed gently on his shoulder, squeezing it gently as a figure walked past. Slowly, John was sucked back into the world of the living, and he became aware of his surroundings. There was no desert, no members of his squad, no raid, and no screams. Instead, there was a quiet London flat, stranded in the middle of a sleepy city, shrouded in clouds. Sherlock sat in the much more modern chair across from him, which had its larger counterpart, a sofa, pressed against the wall beneath the yellow smiley face. He sipped his coffee, wearing the same expression he always did when he was also lost deep in his thoughts. John often wondered where Sherlock's mind drifted to when it was left to freely float. His was stuck in Afghanistan, and Sherlock likely knew that, but where did his own mind go? He couldn't always be thinking about a case. There simply wasn't enough cases often enough to satisfy his dark intellect, hence the macabre experiments. Boredom plagued him often, which resulted in his occasionally manic depressive behaviors.

Did he think of a person? Sherlock had no friends besides John, and John avoided being introduced as his friend, with good reason. Many people hated him with passion, and if not at least disliked him. Every time the two of them introduced themselves, John mulled over whether he'd rather be Sherlock's friend… or everybody else's. He'd learned not to defend him from the angry slew of comments that came his way about Sherlock's behavior, as Sherlock truly didn't care. Instead, he'd listen politely or agree. He'd lived with him for a while now, but he still hadn't chosen if he wanted to stand beside Sherlock in an "us against the world" manner. He didn't want to wake up one day to discover that he'd isolated himself from everybody else because of Sherlock. It's not like Sherlock would care if he left him. He might have a harder time paying the rent, and he might actually have to find a job, but he wouldn't suffer from the loss of companionship. He might miss slinging insults at John when he got in a bad mood, or having someone average to compare his intelligence to. Did he really want to give up everybody else for someone like him? Someone that woke him up in the morning by sticking his face inches away from John's? Someone that conversed on a regular basis with a human skull and stuck body parts in the fridge?

The clouds outside began to tint a slight shade of pink, indicating to John that the sun had finally risen, doing so later in the winter months. Sherlock sighed heavily, and then flicked his piercing gaze to John. "I have a case," he said, caffeine beginning to churn through his system, causing his eyes to lighten and his voice to grow an edge of excitement. John's favourite form of daily entertainment was this; watching Sherlock's mood shift and change based on what was running through his mind. He lived for puzzles, for questions that other people found too difficult to answer, and for putting together everything in seconds. Nothing was more fun, and nothing was more important.

John allowed the corner of his mouth to tug upwards in a smirk, and locked eyes with him.

"Did Lestrade invite you, or are we party crashing?"

"He invited us."

John's mouth set in a firm line. "You said the same thing last time, but we ended up crawling through a window to get to the crime scene."

Sherlock sighed. "I only lie to you when I think your little internal irrationally moral voice will bitch at you, making you bitch at me, putting everyone in a poor mood."

"I don't 'bitch at you'!" John retorted. "I rarely even nag."

Sherlock shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Do you want to come?"

"I need to shower first, but then I will."

"I'll wait."

Warm water trickled down John's body, and he found himself fully relaxing for the first time in a long time, the heat enclosing his body. He was perfectly safe. The bathroom door was locked, and he shoved a chair under the door knob for extra support. The window was locked and coated with a laminate, so if someone were to scale the building and attempt to smash the window in, the pieces would remain exactly where they were, leaving only spider like cracks in the glass. The third and most comforting feature to the room was his large, military issue handgun that laid on the counter, ready for any form of action. None of these precautions were unnecessary. Since meeting Sherlock, he had shot a serial killer, had to save his date from an ancient Chinese death contraption, wrestled with an eight-foot-tall Czech assassin, and had been strapped up to enough bombs to take down a house with a sniper pointing a gun at his head. No, while Sherlock had only one friend, who was him, he had many, many enemies. All of which knew they'd get the most reaction out of Sherlock when they put John in danger. So that tended to happen often, but it was easy to see why. Every kid wants to make the playground bully cry by taking his favourite (and only) toy. While Sherlock never cried, criminals certainly viewed him as the playground bully, because he was very rarely wrong with his deductions, putting many people away for things they otherwise would've gotten away with. The police also tended to dislike him, because his mannerisms frequently led to him insulting their intelligence. Since John had joined Sherlock, however, they had begun to view him as lightly closer to human, seeing him bond with someone, and while Sherlock would never admit it, he worked better with an assistant.

John dressed in the comfort of his safe room, and decided to leave his gun behind. He wasn't a soldier anymore. It wasn't fair for him to pretend to be. He shifted the chair away from the door, and flicked the lock open. Instantly the door opened, and Sherlock's head popped through the opening.

"Don't you think a lock, a chair, and the locked window is a bit overkill, considering all you're doing is taking a shower?"

"For all I know, you've learned to climb walls."

"I promise I won't peek."

"I want that in writing before I ease off my security."

Sherlock didn't need to know about his fear of being killed, or of the threats he'd received from his enemies. Ignorance was bliss, and John preferred to hide in the bathroom without the company of a paranoid Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in sight as the two of them climbed downstairs, which was unusual, but pleasant. John half opened his mouth to comment on it, but bit his lip, knowing she would appear if he commented on it. They stepped out onto Baker Street, feeling the nip of the cold air bite into their skin. Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the address to the driver as they climbed in. The driver frowned, and then turned around to face Sherlock. John immediately stiffened, remembering the first case he worked with Sherlock, where a cab driver forced his victims to commit suicide with poison.

"Are you sure you want to go there, sir?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed before saying, "Of course."

"But, sir…"

"What is it?"

"That's a mental institution."

The driver eyed John with renewed suspicion. John looked surprised at Sherlock, and then said, "Look, we're paying you, so take us there." He ended it with a polite smile, so the cabby turned around to the front and started the engine.

"Why are we going to a mental institution? I thought you had a case."

"I do. It just happens to be at a mental institution."

John scowled. "What happened?"

Sherlock's face burst into a smile. "Three murders."

_How morbid,_ John thought, _that this is what makes him happiest._

"Three patients with schizophrenia were killed_, _each with a note in the hands of the body in a code. No forensic evidence connecting them to a killer has been found yet."

"Has anyone been able to read the code?"

"No. All of the notes appear to be napkins with drawings of sheep on them."

Sherlock handed him his phone, with the photo of a napkin crumpled up in a grey hand displayed on it. The vague outline of a sheep could be made out. "What time did in happen?"

"Three o'clock this morning. Lestrade's been there since four."

"He's been there for six hours?" John and Sherlock rarely stayed at a crime scene for more than twenty minutes.

"Our job is much easier than his."

John nodded, twirling Sherlock's phone. "Do they have a cause of death?"

"No. They wouldn't even be sure these were murders if the patients hadn't been found outside their rooms. Nobody has a clue how they got out."

The taxi pulled to a stop outside a large, almost industrial building. The brick was a dusty yellow-brown, mimicking the colour of the grass that spread around the building. Thick metal letters hung on the top of the building, and they read, "Waterloo Mental Institution." The same metal was used to bar every window, although each was so small it was impossible the climb out. Trees sprung up on the far side of the building, but leaned in the opposite direction of it, as though they were afraid of catching the illnesses that plagued the people inside. The yard seemed to have been stripped entirely of life, but the effect could've easily been created by the thick clouds that hung in the air. Snow was surely on its way.

Sherlock handed over the fair and the two of them stepped out of the cab, quickly heading for the door. The smell of disinfectant greeted John's nose, and while the building wasn't a hospital, it reminded him of one, with its pale walls and floors so well cleaned that you could see your reflection in them. It was as though the cleaning staff had hoped to cure the patients by scrubbing away all pollutants and whitening the entire lobby. But unlike a hospital, there were no sounds except for the squeaking of their shoes. There was no beeping of machines, nurses talking, or cups of coffee being poured. No screams of pain echoed the room. Even the receptionist, perched at a large desk, typed quietly. John looked up at the ceiling, which was also white. He noted that his and Sherlock's dark clothing stood out strongly compared to their surroundings, which John had begun to hate. It was as though someone had sucked the life out of a hospital.

Sherlock caught the gaze of the receptionist, whose brown hair had been slicked back so tightly into a ponytail that it looked painful. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice lifeless and dull, as though she had been sneaking some of the drugs prescribed to the patients. "Yes. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, John Watson. We've been called to assist with the crime scene by Detective Inspector Lestrade." He extended his long, pale hand, but she ignored it, and spoke through a radio, instead. "Detective-Inspector? You're consultant has arrived."

The familiar voice of Lestrade carried over the radio, static making it hard to comprehend. "Fourth floor," she told them. Sherlock had already begun to walk towards the elevator, but John hung back at the desk for a second.

"Um, where on the fourth floor, exactly?"

Her face wrinkled in distaste at John, putting more pressure on her strained scalp. "Just follow the God-awful smell."

John spun on his heel, calling a half hearted, "Thanks," as he ran to catch Sherlock in the closing elevator door. Sherlock stuck his foot out, holding the door, and John slipped in sideways. Sherlock pressed the button, and the elevator began to whirl upwards. Sherlock smiled as the crappy elevator music came on, and John began to feel dizzy as the elevator sped up. Finally it stopped, and Sherlock grabbed John's arm to stabilize him as he began to sway. "Are you alright?" he asked, his gray eyes meeting John's warm brown ones. "Yeah," John said. "Disinfectant gives me a headache." Sherlock nodded, and as the elevator doors swung open, another smell greeted their noses, even less pleasant than disinfectant.

Vomit.

The putrid scent punctuated the air, and the hallways finally had another colour besides white. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off a part of the passage, and police officers leaned over the three bodies, which had a grey tinge due to the florescent lighting. Each corpse appeared to have thrown up a bit, but the vomit itself appeared to be nothing more than liquid puddles on the laminate floor. Two men and a woman were the victims, but as Lestrade approached them and read off their names, John drowned the sound of his voice out. He had to stop listening. He had to stop thinking of them as people. Every night he found himself jumping up from his deep slumber, haunted by the face of yet another victim. He couldn't stop their deaths. By the time he and Sherlock arrived they were already dead, and he constantly had to remind himself of that. But, despite his mental will, he was still a doctor, and every time he saw another human being lying dead on the floor, he still felt the urge to run over and attempt to revive them.

So he pretended they weren't real. He pretended that it was a video game, and that these creatures crumpled in heaps of the floor in front of him were holographic images, and not things that once had a pulse. He swallowed the feeling of dread in his throat and stepped forward, visualizing catching the killer instead of saving the dead.

He'd always been like this. As a child, he'd been the soft-hearted kid that buried every animal that happened to wind up dead on the side of the highway, and the one that took home the bird with the broken neck that was bound to die anyways. He tried to comfort all the lost cats, even though they attempted to claw at him or spread all the diseases they happened to be carrying. Sherlock, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Every time he found road kill, he'd insist upon bringing it home in his backpack, hanging it on the walls of his brother's room using duct tape. He also fed it to the neighborhood coyotes and foxes, analyzing with complete fascination the patterns in which they ripped up their food and where they hid the bones. It was amazing that the two of them could share a flat as adults, but of course, they never met as children.

Lestrade's voice broke through John's visualization. "Like I told you, three o'clock this morning is the approximate time of death, and they were found by a security guard doin' his rounds." Lestrade's face was almost as washed out as the faces of the corpses, and they bore similar expressions of pain. John could easily see the lines etched in the DI's face, and his graying hair and serious eyes stared at the men through a veil of exhaustion which made its mark on his face. His figure was lean and muscular, and while he wasn't tall and gaunt like Sherlock, his height was far above John's. "Do we have a cause of death?" Sherlock asked quickly, and John could hear the whirring of gears in his brain. Lestrade appeared to be minutes away from falling over. "No, but the Coroners are guessing it's some kind of poison." Sherlock stepped quickly over the tape, slipping on a pair of forensic gloves before bending over to examine the figures. John spotted an orderly talking to Sergeant Donovan, who looked much more refreshed than her boss did. He quickly strode over to join them, his eyes set on the orderly. The two women looked up as he approached, Sergeant Donovan only for a minute before returning her gaze to her notes. John quickly extended his hand to the orderly, whose name tag read _Melissa Hodges_. "Dr John Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms Hodges." Her eyes firmly met his, although the rest of her body quivered slightly and her head turned towards the floor. "I-I-I didn't see anything. I left at six, l-like I always d-do." John watched her green eyes flick between him and Sergeant Donovan, who was staring at the space behind Ms Hodges with high intensity. Her eyes flicked to the bodies on the floor, her pupils growing quickly and her mouth twitching slightly before her face mutated into an expression of disgust. "How awful," she murmured.

"Swollen ankles!" Sherlock called over, not averting his gaze from the cadavers. John nodded absentmindedly, before asking, "Can you tell us anything about the victims?" Ms Hodges didn't respond for a moment, her eyes hanging on the corpses. "Oh, I didn't know much about them. Just that they were all schizophrenic, and that they were on strong antipsychotics. They, uh..."her voice trailed off, and she stared intently at the floor and swallowed. "...didn't really have any close relatives of friends."

"But they were sick the day before. They threw up most of the food we gave them." John nodded, finding his attention drifting off of her and landing on Sherlock, who was poking the side of one body. "Thank you for your time, Ms Hodges," he said curtly, lifting the crime scene tape to make enough room for him to step under. He bent down on one knee beside Sherlock, who continued his poking. John leaned in until his lips were inches away from Sherlock's ear before whispering, "What the hell are you doing? You look like a pervert." Sherlock grinned. "Look! It's bloated." John rolled his eyes. "That's gross, not funny."

"You're being narrow -minded. Think! Off the top your head, what poison would cause both swollen ankles and bloating?"

"No clue."

"Me neither." His grin doubled in size. "Our killer was original. How refreshing."

"Okay, so how did the killer slip the poison to the victims? According to the orderly I just talked to, the victims didn't have any family or friends, so no visitors."

Sherlock's grin faltered. "Oh. An inside job. How boring. That limits it to mainly staff with access to patient's food and medication."

"Why would a nurse or doctor want to kill three schizophrenics, and leave sheep napkins in their hands?"

In a swift movement, Sherlock tugged the napkin from the corpse's hand, unfolding it to allow John to look at it. From a direct angle, John could more clearly see that the sheep was stamped onto the paper, and not drawn.

"It's a logo, John. Likely just napkins from the cafeteria. Also, look at each napkin. They're all crumpled in different ways. If the killer purposefully left the napkins in their hands, they would've been crumpled similarly. It's more likely each victim had the napkin in their hand when they began to react to the poison, clutching it tightly in pain. As rigor mortis set in, it would've been difficult to remove them."

"So the killer handed them each a napkin? Why would they do that? Were they trying to cover up a cough?"

Sherlock flipped over the napkin, then announcing, "There's no phlegm."

"Why else would you hand someone a napkin?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Typically it's used for wiping your fingers after having consumed something."

"The vomit consists of mainly liquids, and they were throwing up most of what they ate the day before."

His eyes narrowed into slits, as he began mentally pursuing different directions. "They also give napkins with hot coffee and tea."

"The vomit was clear." John said, trying to duplicate Sherlock's thinking face to see if it duplicated the affect.

Sherlock froze slightly, and the light bulb only John could see above his head went off. "Cold water, too."

"Okay…?"

"What type of element reacts violently with water?"

"Alkali metals, but…"

"Lithium, Sodium, Potassium, etcetera. But what alkali metal is used in mental institutions?"

"Lithium is used for bipolar patients."

"Naturally. It doesn't have an effect on schizophrenic patients, however, but if the doctors were experimenting with different types of medications in a cocktail, lithium could be a key ingredient."

"But lithium medication isn't poisonous."

"No, but straight lithium is. And if we run a tox screen on the victims, we'll find lithium, logically. That would mask the cause of death."

"But wouldn't someone notice the affects of the poison?"

"Not if it was dismissed as food poisoning. Lithium poisoning also causes confusion, but that would be masked by the side effects of anti-psychotics."

"A doctor would avoid giving the patient water."

"Not if all they were taking was lithium capsules, which don't contain pure lithium, so they wouldn't have a reaction, theoretically."

"But if someone were giving the patients straight lithium on a regular basis, and the doctor would allow them to consume water because it should've calmed their stomachs instead of worsening the illness, no one would expect murder. Then, at three o'clock last night, the killer gave the victims the fatal glass of water outside their rooms. But..."

"But what?"

"Why not just give them water inside their rooms, so the death looked natural?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Look at them, John."

"I'd prefer not to, thanks."

"All of them died in pain."

"So?"

"So, why kill someone at all when you have no motive? Why watch them writhe in pain on the floor?"

"I don't know, why?"

"Sadistic pleasure."

The words made John shiver, but his companion remained unbothered, staring straight ahead at the white walls, lost in thought. Having been labelled with many mental illnesses, Sherlock was familiar with many of the terms and allowed them to roll fluently off his tongue, whereas John couldn't spit out the unfamiliar words. As a high functioning sociopath, what everyone else thought of him was totally irrelevant to what he thought of himself, and while he wasn't a complete narcissist, he loved himself more than anyone else could. Adoring someone like Sherlock was a difficult thing, and while he was nothing short of being a great man, he was a far ways away from being a good one.

"Should we check the security cameras?" John asked, knowing his answer might easily be blown off.

"Why not? We know our killer is a sadist and has a vague knowledge of the elements, along with budding necrophilia."

"What?"

"There's a saliva stain beside the lips of the man on the right."

"That's impossible," John said, shaking his head rapidly.

The pair stood up, Sherlock quickly moving behind John, clamping onto the sides of his head and turning him so he could see the stain. "Right there, see?" he asked.

John wriggled away from his grasp, turning to face him. "No, it's not that." Sherlock cocked his head slightly, like a dog hearing a strange sound.

"Have you ever seen sadism and necrophilia in the same person?"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Sadists enjoy watching other people experience physical and emotional pain, where as necrophiliac's are aroused by corpses."

"Oh." Sherlock looked shocked he hadn't thought of it. John took a step back, worried that when his huge ego cracked there might be an explosion of some type. "Corpses don't feel pain, or show it. We have a second killer, which also explains why the first killer didn't just leave them in their rooms. The second killer wanted to see the corpses after the crime, whereas they would have a hard time doing that if the crime scene was in an enclosed space. It would be obvious if they were standing about staring in there, whereas out here, many staff members are watching. Better camouflage."

John nodded, biting the inside of his lip. Sherlock had this down to a science, and while he made it look easy, it never was. It was like watching a dancer perform- the moment you try and duplicate what they made look easy, you make a fool out of yourself.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone beeped, and he swiftly pulled it out of his pocket. His mouth curled when he saw the caller I.D., but picked up anyways.

"What do you want?" he snarled, an unusual tone for him. "No, I'm busy. Yes, I have a case. Yes, I have my idiot with me. No, I don't want to have breakfast with you."

John scowled at being called Sherlock's idiot, but he instantly knew it was Mycroft on the phone, because the only two people in the world that thought of him as stupid were the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock, and the man who was really calling the shots behind the scenes in the British Government, Mycroft.

"Fine," Sherlock said, scowling, "But I'm taking my idiot with me."

When he hung up his phone, John growled at him, "I'm not your bloody idiot."

Sherlock clapped him on the shoulder, a smile covering his face. "Said in an affectionate and loving way, of course. Want to eat breakfast, paid for by the British Government, the CIA and MI6?"

"Only if I can order the most expensive item on the menu with extra everything for takeaway."

"Ah, I've taught you well."

"What about the security footage?"

"What do you think we have Lestrade for?"

"He looks like he might pass out."

Sherlock shrugged. "We're in a hospital of some sorts. They'll find something to treat him with. If not, well, I have his wallet to keep for memories."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sitting in the corner booth of the restaurant, John could see every angle of the room from his current position, and a smile played on Sherlock's lips every time he glanced over at him, bemused with John's paranoid actions. At the very least, there was no way they could be attacked. Sherlock murmured, "Relax," to John, who was staring at the door, waiting for Mycroft's entrance.

"I can't. For all I know, Moriarty will march through that door, and we'll have guns pointed at our heads again." John turned his gaze down to the table, driving fear out of his skull.

Sherlock felt his own heart skip a beat at the memory, thinking of John strapped to a vest of bombs, the smell of chlorine floating through the air. The rippling water of the pool where a boy had almost twenty years before died, and his murderer standing on the far side of the room…

"He likely won't, John. And while I appreciate you guarding us, the only reason Mycroft would've invited us to this place would be if he had it thoroughly bugged."

John took a sip from his cold glass of water, and allowed his muscles to relax as it trickled down his throat.

"So, we have two killers, both suffering from mental illnesses, but are skilled enough to hide it from a group of psychologists."

Sherlock nodded swiftly. "My guess is that one goes in to handle the security cameras, while the other kills the victims outside, on camera, where the other one can watch from the security office. Likely the sadist did the killing, and the necrophiliac watched, then taking the tape with them of the murder and replacing it with a rerun of empty hallways instead."

"Do you think they would've kept the tape?"

"Indisputably."

"Was a security guard involved, then? You know, for access to the security office and to be able to unlock the victim's rooms?"

Sherlock made a face. "Doubtful. People notice security guards, whereas both our killers had to be discreet about their… tastes. More likely they have background jobs there."

John felt his fingers go numb from the water glass, which had melting frost coated around the outside, and the water had begun to make it slippery. He put the glass down on the table, in fear of dropping it. Mycroft would likely pay for anything his little brother dropped (despite their aversion for each other); whereas John was just Sherlock's roommate who'd refused to spy on Sherlock for cash. It was unlikely he'd shovel out money for John, even if he was the closest thing Sherlock had to a friend, although he always paid for his meal. John supposed Sherlock was easily offended.

"So how did they get access?"

"Well, statistically speaking, killers are more often men than women, and I saw no female security guards."

John frowned. "I suppose that rules out seduction, then?"

Sherlock smirked. "You're very narrow-minded when you want to be, you know. This is the twenty-first century."

"Are we looking for a gay security guard?"

"Possibly, but this could easily be a female killer, too. Poison has been the preferred method for killing someone larger than you throughout the ages."

"Do the genders of the victims tell us anything?"

"Not really, since both sexes were murdered."

Both men lapsed into silence, their minds buried deeply in details of the crime scene. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence with,

"The killer was fairly smart. He or she needed to know the correct amount of lithium to give the victims in order to watch them suffer before they died, and then had to know the strength it took to kill them."

"Medical knowledge?"

"One of them had to have some in order for poison to work."

"How about the second killer, then?"

"They were likely less involved in the murder and more involved in the poisoning, because they needed to feed the lithium to the victims, and if they were a sadist, their colleagues would notice. Necrophilia is harder to spot because it would only show when the person is exposed to a corpse. The sadist likely has a meaningless job, like a janitor, because if they had close colleagues someone would notice their illness."

John jumped suddenly, hearing the chimes at the door jingle as Mycroft strode through the door, his trusty umbrella in hand. John strongly disliked that umbrella, as it was one the features that gave Mycroft his air of importance, and added to his overdramatic tendencies. He had the same brown hair as Sherlock, but with brown eyes instead of gray, and his face was round. Sherlock's face more resembled a roman statue, looking as though it had been chiselled out of stone.

They both, however, were arrogant and moody.

Mycroft crossed the room with grace, his shoes clicking softly on the floor, and his suit swaying as he walked. He took his seat across from John and Sherlock, and looked slightly out of place in the snug restaurant, but so did his brother. All around them were normal families, living their normal lives and indulging in a routine Saturday morning breakfast, meanwhile three men, clothed in semi-formal clothing, discussed a triple murder in the corner booth of the restaurant. How long ago was it that John had been one of those routine people, seeing the world through a tunnel? Now, he lived in a completely different universe, and while those families, friends and people in general could only be a few metres away, it felt as though they were separated by hundreds of kilometres. How could they stand it? It would be like eating the same, bland tasting food every day, for every meal. While they went to work, came home, and went shopping, he raced after the world's only consulting detective through traffic on a busy street, caught criminals, and bickered over his intelligence with one of the world's most brilliant minds.

On every other breath he took he reminded himself to taste the air, to remember what it felt like in his lungs—there was never a guarantee he would feel it there again. He savoured everything around him—the smell of coffee brewing, the faces of people in the restaurant, the wrinkles in his paper placement and tear marks beside the wet circle his glass had made, the sun shining briefly through the clouds, and Sherlock's upper arm rubbing against his shoulder. When the people in this room died-as they all would, along with him- what could they say they did with their lives, besides lived their routine to the tee? Yes, they were all alive, but they were nowhere near as close to living as he.

"Morning," Mycroft said briskly, glancing at both his brother and John. "I presume you have a case, otherwise Sherlock would still be asleep." Despite all the sarcasm and disparity in Mycroft's voice, the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up wards, a half smile. "An interesting one, actually. There were three murders."

"Oh?" Mycroft didn't seem remotely interested. "Where?"

"Waterloo Mental Institution. Three patients were killed."

Mycroft stopped mid breath, making a sound similar to choking.

Sherlock's half smile broke into a grin, which he attempted to conceal by staring at his hands, which were folded on his lap. John could still see the edges of his mouth, however, which appeared to twitch slightly. He failed to see the humour in the situation.

Sherlock firmed his mouth before returning his gaze to Mycroft. "Yes. It appears that two members of the staff murdered them for pleasure."

John looked back and forth from Mycroft's bewildered gaze to Sherlock's poker face, which was cracking slightly.

"You're making this up," Mycroft said swiftly. John frowned in confusion. "Why would he do that?"

Mycroft's face twisted in distaste. "Because I attempted to convince Sherlock to admit himself there as a young adult."

Sherlock burst into a grin, chuckling under his breath. "One of his convincing arguments was that it was one of the safest places I could be, away from death and murder. Which, of course, convinced me not to go, because death, murder and puzzles are my reason for living."

John smiled, half in amusement and half in slight confusion. "Well, he's not really that mad," John said, "is he?"

Mycroft's scowl deepened, making the creases in his face intensify. "No, but many people wished to see him dead, and a secure facility would be the safest place for him." He relaxed his facial muscles. "Still would, actually, with Moriarty wishing him dead too."

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft, I've got the army's best doctor sharing a flat with me. You should see how paranoid he is. He's like a watch dog," Sherlock patted John on the head affectionately.

Mycroft looked warily at John. "I just wish he was more like a pit-bull and less like a cocker spaniel."

John's brow furrowed. "Are you calling me short?" he asked indignantly.

Mycroft smirked. "More or less," he replied casually.

Sherlock smiled. "Short in height, not character, John."

John scowled, attempting to hide the twitch of a smile he felt pulling on his lips. Sherlock rarely showed his affection for John, and was doing so now purely for the sake of irritating Mycroft. It was working well. The face of the man across the table had become slightly grey, as if he were taken aback by his brother's sudden burst of fondness.

"Either way," Mycroft said, flicking his gaze to his phone, "perhaps you should consider moving into an apartment with security."

John pulled his poker face, not wanting to show his fear of a life without Sherlock. A life spent staring through a thick fog of boredom, craving action,- adrenaline soaring through his veins, his heart beating a million pulses a minute, and his muscles aching from the strain of running so quickly. Nothing could beat that feeling, that high that danger and fear gave him. It was the suspense of the mystery, wondering who was behind the crime, and whether they could stop them in time before they hurt another person. Life was a tightrope act, and John wavered from one side to the other, contemplating the fall that had every possibility of happening. With Sherlock, it no longer mattered how you looked, or what everyone else thought of you. Life was viewed from a bigger picture perspective, and every insecurity you had about yourself disappeared when Sherlock could point out everybody else's just by giving them a once-over. When he stood beside his friend, John felt like he was made of steel and that together they had the world nestled in the palm of their hands. They were in control of anything and everything, gambling it all away to discover the truth behind the mysteries. If Sherlock moved, Mycroft wouldn't pay for John to come with him, and they'd no longer share a flat. They'd drift apart, and he'd lose him.

"No thank you," Sherlock said, all humour wiped off of his face. John relaxed, watching the waitress carry over two massive plates of food. He sneaked a glance at Mycroft, dying for a reaction. Mycroft winced slightly, but covered it up before Sherlock could notice it. The waitress set the plates down on the table, and a flicker of a smirk snuck onto her face. _She's probably thinking that we'll be fat-asses in no time._ John smiled back with full force, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend's sweetness. John took advantage of his size and his warm-brown eyes, using them as his charm against anyone everywhere, and while Sherlock was a fantastic actor, he never could pull off John's allure. In comparison, Sherlock was the villain in an American comic book whereas John was the adorable sidekick.

He thanked her, and her smirk transformed into a soft smile as she strode off.

"Good lord," cursed Mycroft softly. "You must've gotten everything you wanted for Christmas as a kid, didn't you?"

John looked surprised. "Really? I would've thought you did more so than Sherlock."

Sherlock tuned out the words escaping his companion's mouths, and his mind drifted to the case, biting his lip softly as he thought of the employee's of the institute. Two of them killed the three victims out of pleasure. For the thrill of it. Were the victims random? Both genders had been killed, but did they all have a similar trait besides schizophrenia and the fact that they were being treated with a wide variety of medications? The schizophrenia insured that nothing they said about thinking someone wanted to kill them would be believed, and the wide variety of medications meant lithium would mask the use of more lithium being used as poison. They appeared to have no physical features in common...

"So, Sherlock, have you seen-Molly, was her name?—recently?" asked Mycroft.

John looked surprised. "Molly Hooper, the coroner at the hospital?" He'd known she'd had feelings for Sherlock, but Sherlock hadn't exactly indicated he returned those feelings. Although, John reasoned, she'd be the only girl in the world that could equally match his strangeness with her own. Because of her interest in him, she frequently let him use the bodies that died of natural causes for his experiments. John assumed that that was where the head in the fridge had come from.

Sherlock frowned at his brother, confused. "No, of course not. I haven't seen her since the run-in with Moriarty."

Mycroft nodded, then smiling slightly. "How did she take it when you told her that her boyfriend was a criminal mastermind that was dating her purely for the sake of getting to you?"

Moriarty had gone undercover as an IT tech in the hospital in order to "introduce" himself to Sherlock, only later revealing his position as the world's only consulting criminal to the world's only consulting detective. He'd forced Sherlock to solve several crime's he'd assisted in committing by holding hostages strapped to bombs, John being the last one. All the while he dated Molly as one of his chess moves, which Sherlock appeared indifferent about.

Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of waffles before responding, "I haven't."

Mycroft gave him a look. "I thought you didn't eat when you were working." 

Sherlock turned his head slightly to the side, returning his brother's serious gaze. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Mycroft looked miffed. "I suppose so, but you aren't one to contemplate your health." He nodded towards the waffles, several of which were covered in melted chocolate chips and whipped cream. Sherlock took another bite.

"Not all of us are on a diet," he said with his mouth half full.

Mycroft sighed. "Not all of us are going to have a heart-attack and die."

John shook his head slightly. "More likely of a vitamin-D deficiency first."

"You can't die of that," Sherlock said, his own arrogance piercing his voice.

"Have you taken a look at yourself recently, Sherlock? You look like you're already dead, you're so pale." Mycroft sneered.

Sherlock scowled. "Better that than get wrinkles or skin cancer from the sun."

John held back a laugh. "The only thing you would get from an afternoon in the sunlight would be a burn, and that's only because they don't make sunscreen for albinos."

It was Sherlock's turn to look miffed. "Ouch. My loyal cocker-spaniel has gone and mauled my ankles."

A quiet beep sounded from Mycroft's phone. He pulled it out onto the table, regarding the text with a slight smile, and then standing up swiftly. "I'm afraid I have to go," he commented, his eyes not leaving the phone. "I'd offer to pay, but Sherlock already has my credit card." John frowned at Sherlock, watching Mycroft's back as he left the restaurant. "You have to stop doing that, you know. Lestrade can only cover you so much if someone decides to press charges."

"I do it for the greater good."

"How does taking your brother's credit card contribute to the greater good?"

"He'll have less money to but those terrible suits with, saving the children in Asia that slave over making them several less cuts and bruises."

John looked dumbfounded at him. "You're terrible, you know that? You're just awful."

Sherlock dove yet again into his waffles, pausing and looking slightly up at the ceiling as he swallowed. "We really do have a problem."

"With paying companies that enslave children?"

"No, with the case. Many people were hanging around the bodies."

"Twelve or so."

"Thirteen, actually." He commented, his forehead wrinkling as he thought. "I shouldn't have eaten. Digesting slows down my thinking."

"The police interviewed all of them."

"Yes, but the police fail to see what I see. The necrophiliac would've had a difficult time focusing on what questions they were being asked while in the presence of the bodies."

"Should we go back...?"

"No, they've likely already been sent home."

John tried to focus his mind on the thirteen people. He'd only interviewed one before rushing to Sherlock. He tried to think of their faces, but they all blurred together, wearing similar coloured scrubs and having their hair pulled back. Skin colour, gender and facial features all blurred together as though he'd put their faces in the blender; they were mixed beyond recognition. His brain couldn't separate them, and even the nurse he interviewed he had to focus to remember.

"I only spoke to one."

"Do you remember anything about them?"

John sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands. "Not much." It wouldn't have been helpful if he had lied, after all. Sherlock leaned on his elbows and folded his hands, covering his mouth and the tip of his nose. "Don't worry. I have enough tricks up my sleeve to be a prostitute."

John raised his eyebrows. It was unlike him to make jokes. "You don't have any STD's, do you?" he asked, trying to return Sherlock's attempt at humour. Several people in the restaurant turned around from their meals, staring at the two of them. John felt his face heat up, and he attempted to glare intently at his plate, feeling eyes crawl over him. Sherlock, on the other hand, relished it.

Sherlock smirked at the unwanted attention. "Don't worry!" He called across the room. "I used protection!" A man across the room whispered something to the woman next to him, who smiled slightly and nodded.

Sherlock then waved over the waitress, and within a minute the two of them left the restaurant, leaving behind them a small crowd of onlookers and a plate covered in left-over whipped cream. Neither said much on the ride back to Baker Street, Sherlock lapsed in silence and looking at his phone, his thumbs running across the screen. For a few minutes, John's attention was caught by the world outside the cab, watching as people lived their lives. His view of them was slightly obscured by the thickness of the dust on the windows, which were highlighted by the rays of sunlight that slightly shone through. John closed his eyes, allowing the warmth to creep across his face. Suddenly, Sherlock cursed quietly under his breath, and his fingers skidded more quickly across the screen. John leaned over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of what was on the screen, but instead caught only glimpse of Sherlock's scowling expression. John felt like Sherlock didn't fit in this scene—in the warmth and safety of the cab, golden light trickling through the windows—it felt as though he was the only thing reminding John of reality, pulling him back down to earth from his ethereal world he had created. He knew that he needed to be reminded of reality; needed to be reminded that he was no longer in a world built of soldiers and heroes, a world where the bad guys were really bad, and not just sick or greedy or hurt. It was like his world had been transformed from a two-dimensional black and white drawing to a full-colour painting, and he had a hard time taking in all the details and not just the simple outlines.

"What are you looking at?" John asked him, and instantly all the warmth was sucked out of the cab, leaving him cold and desolate.

"The employee records of the institute. Several of the previous employees who worked there transferred over the past couple months to different employers. One of them, however, is now a therapist. Dr. Shamus Brown, actually."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Therapists are good at talking to people, and can identify illnesses among there co-workers better than anyone else. Maybe even spot a necrophiliac...?"

John smiled. "If we talk to him he could tell us who the killer's assistant was. But how do we get him to talk to us?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "He's a therapist. How do you think we get him to talk to us?"

"Oh, I get it! I go under cover as a patient, right?"

"Not you John. Us. He's a couple's therapist."

When Sherlock had said undercover, John had hoped it would be something fun and enticing, something such as the role of a drug dealer or an international arms smuggler. _No, it couldn't be something cool,_ John thought to himself bitterly as he sat in front of his mirror, trying to restyle his hair and clothes to make him seem gayer. _It had to be Sherlock's boyfriend. _Not that being Sherlock's "plus one" would be an easy task, and he would admire anyone who attempted to do this in the future. If anyone actually succeeded in this task, or if Sherlock found he fancied someone. As far as John could tell, he hadn't yet. Sherlock's sexuality itself was a topic neither of them spoke about since they met each other, and John doubted either of them knew the answer to that question. It was unlikely Sherlock ever had a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. He wondered if Sherlock would ever. _Probably not,_ he thought, but there was no way he could know unless he asked Sherlock. Would he offend him, though? He was unsure.

Deciding he was done, John hurried down the stairs and turned into the apartment. Sherlock sat in his chair, his feet jutting out across the floor and his head facing the ceiling.

"You didn't change?" John asked the twisted figure.

"Why should I? Someone's sexuality isn't defined by their clothes or how they act."

Instantly John felt a pang of shame wash over him, having spent so long attempting to perfect his image.

"Oh, um, right, right. Did you book the appointment?"

Sherlock gave an awkward looking nod. "We have half an hour. I suggest we practice fighting."

John snorted. It wasn't going to be a difficult task complaining about Sherlock. "Alright. I _hate_ it when you shoot the wall and stuff body-parts in the fridge for experiments."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "You take long showers and complain a lot."

"You mock my height and intelligence twenty-four seven."

"You are paranoid and continue to act as though you could save me from all danger when in fact you're half my height and weight and can't run as fast as me."

John blinked, feeling hurt. "Do you actually hate me trying to protect you?"

Sherlock half-smiled. "Of course not. I think of it as your way of expressing affection."

John went back to acting. "You never express your affection for me except when you're trying to mock your brother. You never really mean it."

"I might as well face the fact that you don't love me anymore," Sherlock said, hurt seeping into his voice and very realistic tears running down his face. "You're only in it for the money!"

John snorted and laughed. "Don't flatter yourself. It's your brother's money."

Sherlock's expression returned to normal. "What should I go with instead?"

"Something deeper. Maybe I'm cheating on you with Mycroft."

Sherlock let out an over dramatized sigh, followed by, "Why John, why? Why must you break my heart when you know I love you?"

"Why must you play the violin at four in the morning?"

"As I've said previously, it helps focus my attention and helps me think."

"You don't need to think at four in the morning. You need to sleep."

Sherlock sighed. "Sleep is boring. So are beds."

John smirked. "You'd find that less boring if you had someone to share it with."

"I sleep with Freddy sometimes."

"What?"

"Well, I don't see you snuggling with me when I have a nightmare."

"That wasn't in our flatmate contract."

"Neither was solving crimes together, but we do that."

"Sherlock, I'm straight."

"I don't snuggle with Freddy in a romantic way."

"Yes, but he doesn't have flesh. Or limbs, for that matter."

"You get nightmares too, sometimes. It could be mutually beneficial."

"So could taking sleeping pills."

Sherlock grinned, ear to ear. "Mycroft says I'm not allowed to have those anymore."

John's mouth opened in an attempt to respond, but closed it again. Sherlock frowned.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"I've run out of things to complain about for you."

John smiled, his ears moving upwards slightly as he did. Sherlock held back a grin and a joke about cows doing the same thing with their ears, and instead listened to John's, "Oh. Okay then. But I'm nowhere near the end of my list."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Go on."

"You use deadly chemicals for experiments in our kitchen on a regular basis."

Sherlock dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "You wear enough knitted sweaters to make me think you have old women around the world sending them to you."

John made a mental note to go shopping. "You light my personal items on fire."

"I already bought you a new laptop."

"Yes, but you wasted a bunch of money."

"Which we would've spent on what, exactly? Oh, that's right—nothing, because you don't pay for your clothes, they're all Christmas presents."

"Rather that than spend too much money on shirts you only wear once."

Sherlock scowled. "I'd lend you my castoffs, but you're too fat to fit in them!"

"At least I don't look like a tall teenager with multiple eating disorders!"

"You have enough fat to make a whale jealous."

John gave a fake gasp. "It's because I'm eating for two!"

Then Sherlock gasped. "You're pregnant?"

"No, you dumbass, I'm a guy. I'm eating for you."

Sherlock chuckled. "Mycroft tells me the same thing. Oh my God, John, you're becoming my brother!"

John let out a raspy laugh, before commenting, "We have to go soon. Are you ready?"

"To be your boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"No. I told you John, I'm married to my work."

"No—I mean—forget it. You know what, just forget it."

They then left the apartment with purpose, leaving the warmth and security of the indoors for the cold world that was hidden behind they're front door. The streets were quieter, now, as most people worked away in their offices, and Sherlock and John had to walk a couple blocks before they were able to find a taxi. Tourists and street performers and the occasional person with the day off wandered the roads, but none of the people John used to identify with could be seen. The world churned by around him, and when he reached the waiting room of the therapist's office, he immersed himself in the roll of Sherlock's boyfriend. He was nervous, but when he saw the mask of calm that coated Sherlock's face, he didn't dare voice his fears.

As their names were called, John felt himself distancing his worries, allowing the soldier in him to take control of the situation. He relaxed his shoulders, and avoided fiddling with his hands or shoving them into his pockets. This guy was a therapist, and he could read body language. If he and Sherlock were really dating, he'd have no reason to be nervous.

The room that they'd been ushered into was painted a warm yellow colour, which boldly contrasted the forlorn view of London that could be viewed out the large, square window hung behind Dr. Brown's desk. Dark wooden bookshelves sat pressed against either sides of the walls, filled with many multi-coloured textbooks. But it wasn't the room that surprised John. It was the man that sat behind the desk.

John had expected him to be British, and formal, at that. But instead he was tan and dark-haired, and was seated with his feet propped up on the table. He gestured to the seats in front of his desk, and with a slight Spanish accent murmured, "Please have a seat." He didn't reach over to shake their hands, or introduce himself, but allowed a small smirk to tug up the corner of his lips.

Both Sherlock and John took a seat, staring resolutely at the man across from them. "Typically," Dr. Brown began, "a therapist introduces himself to the clients and vice-versa, but seeing as we all know each other's names and why we are here, I feel it's unnecessary." Silence filled the room for a few seconds, and John let out a fake cough in an attempt to ease the awkwardness.

"Why are we here, then?" Sherlock asked the man.

"Well, I'm here to make money off of listening to people complain about their spouses and give them the same advice they would've found on the internet for a much higher price. You, on the other hand, are here to ask about the murders that occurred and the Waterloo Mental Institution and if I noticed anything strange prior to my relocation here."

John allowed himself to gape briefly. _I hate therapists,_ crossed his mind as Sherlock said, "I take it we aren't a convincing couple?"

The doctor smiled. "Very convincing, actually. I just happened to recognize your names and found your website. You've already paid my hourly wage, so I don't see a reason why I shouldn't tell you what I know."

Sherlock gave a small smile. "Which is?"

The doctor paused, collecting his thoughts. "What are your suspicions involving the murders?"

"We believe that there are two killers—one a sadist, likely with a background job, and the other a necrophiliac with medical knowledge and access to the patient's rooms."

Dr. Brown frowned slightly. "So a doctor or orderly?" He closed his eyes briefly, running his thumb and index finger over his eyelids, and drawing his lips into his face. "Doctors are thoroughly scanned before working at an institution. It would be terrifying if one managed to slip the screening, but I think it's more likely an orderly."

John felt himself growing distracted by the particles of dust that floated throughout the air as the doctor thought, while Sherlock paid rapt attention.

"Hmm. They likely wouldn't have been able to sustain a normal relationship, but then again, saying you worked at a mental institution and coming home every day smelling like disinfectant could be a bit of a turnoff."

Sherlock shrugged. He was reminded briefly of Molly, who probably returned home each day smelling of disinfectant and likely had to explain to each of her dates that she spent all day chopping up corpses. No wonder John pitied her.

"They would've been shy, and easily influenced, because most necrophiliac's don't like killing. They'd prefer to dig up graves, instead. They'd be someone everyone else would ignore."

People didn't ignore Molly, did they? He never did, at least. He always found something to talk to her about. Maybe that was why she'd liked him.

Maybe it was why she'd liked Moriarty.

"Do you have a list of people surrounding the crime scene, or surveillance of it?"

"No list, but I can hack into the institute's surveillance. Do you think you could pick someone out from the crowd?" Sherlock asked.

John was surprised the doctor didn't even flinch at the word "hack". The man seemed to be on Sherlock's page.

"Absolutely."

Dr. Brown pulled out his laptop, happily sliding to the side as Sherlock stepped around the desk and ran his fingers across the keyboard, quickly drawing up the footage. John walked around the desk, peering around Sherlock. The screen showed John and Sherlock just hours before; Sherlock poking the corpse, John talking to DI Lestrade, John standing beside Donovan...

"There," the doctor said, his voice cutting through the silence. Sherlock froze the frame, and everyone's gaze fixed on where his finger landed on the screen.

John swore under his breath.

The doctor had pointed directly at the nervous, stuttering figure of Melissa Hodges, the only onlooker John had spoken to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Alright, I admit it… I have a soft spot for Molly. I can't relate to the whole shy thing, but maybe she'll get some confidence. So, I dedicate this chapter to her.**

Chapter Three

Half an hour later both Sherlock and John sat in Lestrade's office, both faced with the same answer.

"No."

"What do you mean no?" Sherlock spluttered, outrage stinging his words, the upper half of his nose wrinkled in absolute displeasure at the words churning from Lestrade's mouth.

"Sherlock, I can't go around arresting people just because they acted strangely at a crime scene. It doesn't prove she's a necrophiliac. It doesn't give me probable cause for a DNA sample, either. If you can prove she is one, we can get her DNA, but to do this you need proof. You need footage of her…with… a body."

John snorted in irritation, still feeling incredibly, incredibly stupid. He could've proved it. If he'd just noticed how her pupils enlarged, how her breathing faltered-

"Enough, John," Sherlock said, his tone slightly softer for his friend. "You can't blame yourself for that. Not even I would've noticed something like that."

John felt his mouth twitch upwards in a half smile. "I don't think you have enough practice telling when a woman is attracted to someone to tell, Sherlock."

Lestrade chuckled, and Sherlock just shrugged off the comment. "Proof, proof, proof…" he murmured under his breath. He leaned back in the cheap plastic chair; the cold fluorescent lights making his skin look more like marble than it did usually. He could have been a statue, frozen like that; save the awkward position, which only he could manage to hold for so long.

John witnessed as Sherlock's light bulb went off, his eyes widening considerably. "John," he said slowly, his voice deadpan, "I think we have to go now."

"Where are we going, exactly?" He asked.

"I want to see Mycroft."

John bit his tongue, hard. That was the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He stood up, shrugging his jacket on again. As the two of them were halfway out the door he heard Lestrade yell after them, "Wait- who the hell is Mycroft?" But they were too far ahead to shout back an answer. Donovan barely glanced up from her desk, muttering something along the lines of, "The freak and John are at it again," but he couldn't pick apart the exact words. Everything was half blurred as his heart rate increased. Sherlock had a plan. He was putting together the pieces, and while he didn't quite have the full image yet, he had a general idea of what it looked like.

Melissa Hodges was a necrophiliac and the assistant killer. She had helped the first killer access the patient's rooms, and then the first killer erased the footage of the murder. Suddenly, something occurred to him. "Sherlock, how did they get past the guards? No one mentioned anything, and a guard would likely say something if he realized he'd been seduced by Melissa."

"Or the other killer."

"Who's a guy, statistically speaking?"

"The fact that the second killer was a female, and that poison was used instead of brute force to kill the other victims suggests the first killer is also female."

"That narrows the field. Do we just search the female employees with background jobs at the institute?"

"No. Once again, that's coincidental in the eyes of a lawyer."

"How, then? Do we get Melissa to tell us?"

"Melissa's sick, but she's also loyal. Remember what Dr. Shamus told us? No one talks to her. The one person that likes her will be the one she won't betray."

John bit his lip. All roads seemed to be hitting a dead end, and yet Sherlock seemed to be looking at some type of map with every alleyway etched within its ink. The difference between what they saw was like the difference between some with perfect vision and near blindness. He just had to except that he'd never fully understand. He just had to trust his friend.

"Molly," Sherlock spoke as a greeting to the slightly timid coroner who stood hanging above a body lying still on the slab. She winced at his voice, and avoided looking at him.

"Yes?" she asked gently. John silenced Sherlock with an elbow to his side, speaking swiftly to say, "I'm sorry about Jim," before he said something to offend her. She nodded slightly, letting out a soft laugh. "Go figure the only guy that returns my feelings happens to be the World's Only Consulting Criminal." John gave a weak, empathetic smile, noting how Sherlock was hanging back. The cold lights shone harsh angles onto his face, making him look more like the bad guy and less like the good one. If he even was the good one.

"I'm sure that's not true," John said warmly, trying to encourage her. Molly's face remained hurt though, and John felt like his words had bounced off a brick wall. For a moment, the only sound was the breathing of the three people in the room, and while John felt the silence was awkward and stiff, Sherlock lapsed into it comfortably. He folded his hands behind his back and began striding the room in slow, measured paces, admiring the bodies lying peacefully on the tables, their eyes shut as though they were sleeping. Then he cast his gaze to the floor, and John easily read the look as his thinking one.

"Life sucks." Sherlock finally managed to spit out, catching both John and Molly by surprise. "We're born, we die, and somewhere in between it all they expect us to live." He unfolded his hands and swung them around to another autopsy table, leaning over a body.

"What's your point?" Molly asked, her infatuation with Sherlock beginning to creep back into her voice. "Most of the time people, in general, are just plain rubbish." His gaze never left the body, which was oblivious to the unwanted attention. "Some things, however, are fun."

"Like what?" She asked.

"Murder. Not committing it, of course, but solving it." His eyes finally flicked up to her face, attempting to measure her reaction. Her brow furrowed.

"I can't do that," she said softly, "that's your job."

"Do you want to help me do my job?"

She bit her lip, but John could feel her practically vibrating in anticipation. She was only pausing to psyche Sherlock out.

"What can I do?" She asked finally, a grin spreading slowly on her face.

_God, these people are sick,_ John thought as loudly as possible. Neither of them, however, had figured out a way to read brainwaves yet, so he could think as loudly as he pleased without getting any feedback.

"We're going to need a body."

Silence sucked the air out of the room yet again, and John felt his jaw drop. He couldn't speak. He couldn't. If he did he wouldn't be able to stop himself from bending over, pulling off his shoe and whipping it at Sherlock at lightning speeds. What made his jaw drop even further, was her answer.

"Any particular gender in mind?"

A weak sound trickled out of his mouth, and the he quickly shut it, realizing that he must look like a gasping fish. He was asking her to steal a body. To take the shell of someone once living and dress it up and allow it to be molested by a necrophiliac in order to solve a puzzle. And she acted like he was asking her if he could borrow her phone. It was insane.

"I think male will do. Preferably young, natural causes, without any family. Families do tend to get so… sentimental about their relative's corpses."

Molly swiftly tugged off her gloves, tossing them into a large garbage bin sitting in the corner, twirling her lab coat as she turned and walked towards a computer propped on a sparse metal desk. Her fingers graced across the keyboard, and Sherlock and John crossed the room in order to peek at the list of names that was covered by her hunched shoulders.

"How young?" she asked, a small smile creeping onto the corners of her mouth.

John struggled to remember the ages of the victims, settling with, "Late twenties, maybe? Someone fairly attractive, too."

Molly frowned. "Corpses aren't attractive, though."

"Attractive by corpse standards."

Molly shrugged, returning her attention to the screen. John felt his heart pound sickeningly loud in his chest, and the world seemed to spin a slight bit faster around him. They were stealing a body. A body. It wasn't a question of if they'd get put in jail, just a question of how long they'd be in there. He swallowed. It's not like he'd wimp out, he just didn't think a warrant for his arrest would look particularly good on a job application.

"Sherlock," he said slowly, trying to keep his voice level and his words firm, "has it occurred to you that this illegal? Very illegal?"

His friend smirked down at him. "Think of the forest, John, not just the one tree. Big picture."

John glared at Sherlock. "We could get arrested."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Prison would be problematic for someone like you."

"_Excuse_ me? What are you trying to suggest?" John felt himself starting to see red.

"You know…" Sherlock trailed off.

"No, no I don't." John cocked his head slightly to the side, the expression Sherlock had come to recognize as the one he used to help contain his anger. He bit back a smirk. John's ears always looked too big for his head when he did that. Rage tinted his voice.

Silence filled the room as John attempted to bore holes in Sherlock's face with his eyes. Finally, Molly couldn't hold it in anymore.

"He means you're short!" She spat out, then quickly covering her mouth with her hand, as though trying to refrain herself from saying anything else.

John smirked. "Yeah, but he'd be in more trouble than me in prison."

"Oh? How so?" Sherlock asked casually, his eyes flitting between John and the screen.

"You know…" John trailed off, "you're a pretty boy."

"I'm so flattered you think I'm pretty," he said swiftly, finishing his comment with, "Molly, do you have anything?"

She quickly wiped the smile that had formed on her face off, then nodding. "Caleb Fryer, twenty seven, suicide. He died only a week ago. Will he do?"

"Perfectly." Sherlock said.

John bit his lip slightly, then asking Sherlock, "Can I borrow your phone?"

Sherlock looked taken aback, then his eyes widened as he realized why. "Ohhh. You want to call Mycroft."

"Who's Mycroft?" Molly asked.

"My brother," Sherlock replied, scowling as he passed his phone to John.

"You have a brother?" Molly asked, hope filling her voice. John chuckled under his breath.

Sherlock looked alarmed at her, then frowning. "What?" she asked. "You aren't interested. Maybe he will be."

John grinned slightly. "Sorry Molly. I don't think Mycroft is interested in Mortals."

She shrugged, and John returned his attention to the phone, quickly sending a text.

**Hi Mycroft, it's John. There is a possibility we are committing a felony tonight, and Sherlock may need you to keep us from being arrested. **

He got his response quickly.

**I'm in a meeting right now, but what kind of a felony are we talking about? MH**

John quickly flitted his fingers across the keypad.

**Stealing a body from the morgue with help from Molly, then using it as bait for a necrophiliac. JW**

The phone beeped thirty seconds later, and John was vaguely aware of Sherlock and Molly moving behind him, and the sound of a drawer sliding open as they moved the body.

**Well that's not so bad. Sherlock's done worse. Don't worry, I'll have it covered. MH**

John turned the phone off, twirling in between his fingers absentmindedly, striding across the room in order to help pull the large black body bag off the drawer. It slid off relatively easily, rigor mortis making it stiff and frozen.

"Where are we taking him?" John asked Sherlock.

"The institute, where she works. Likely she won't want to leave there after the bodies were there just this morning. Everyone else besides the security guards will have left, and the security guards will be watching patients in the other wings. We'll leave the body in the front lobby."

"Won't the security cameras capture that?"

"You just texted Mycroft, didn't you? Chances are the footage will disappear before anyone ever sees it."

Molly frowned. "How do we get the body there? Do you have a car?"

John's eyes widened, realizing the truth in her words.

"No, I figured we'd just take a cab." He responded smoothly.

"With a corpse?" John asked incredulously.

"We'll just wait until later at night and say he's highly intoxicated."

Molly looked alarmed. "Even drunk people can walk. If the cabbie doesn't notice, someone else will, especially if we take the cab from the hospital."

"We have to manage to hide him somehow and walk two blocks without anyone noticing anything," John said shaking his head, trying to make sense of the words trickling from the other's mouths. "This plan won't work."

"Yes it will," Sherlock said swiftly. "Molly, do you have any large bags?"

Her eyes widened further. "None that I want a body in."

Sherlock looked exasperated. "I'll buy you a new one."

She frowned. "No you won't. It's an Yves St Laurent."

John winced. "You're right," he said swiftly. "If you let us use it, Sherlock will go out with you for a week."

Sherlock looked mortified. He opened his mouth briefly, and then quickly shut it. He had to refrain from looking like John.

Molly frowned, torn between her dignity and what she desperately wanted. Seconds ticked by as she considered and Sherlock sweat.

"Nah, but if you set me up with his brother I will."

"Done," John said, snatching up the opportunity. "Do you have it here?"

"Yeah, but you might have to bend his knees to get him to fit."

"Right. We'll get on that, and you grab the bag quickly."

Half an hour later, the three of them left the morgue, trying to appear as casual as possible. Sherlock was lugging the bag over shoulder, which was now a lot fuller than it had been upon its entrance. It was the kind of thing someone would joke about really, John mused internally. _"That bag looks a lot bulkier now than it did before, Molly. Did you steal a body?_ Then the person who said the joke would give a hollow laugh, trying to elude the audience into thinking he or she was funny. John smirked. It was only funny because it was true.

"So, was it a busy day, Molly?" John asked, plastering his sweet smile on his face.

"Not really," she responded, returning the smile with a grin.

"Good god," Sherlock looked horrified as they strode through the lobby. "Are you two trying to make small talk? At a time like this?"

"Normal people, Sherlock," John said, "talk to each other in public. You know, carry on conversation?"

Sherlock gave a little frown. "Oh. Then I suppose it's good if it's not a busy day. You know, because less people died."

"Not really, actually," Molly responded, her voice desolate and her head cocked slightly to one side, "they'll just die the next day."

John felt incredulous. One minute he's trying to start a casual conversation, the next Molly and Sherlock were discussing death.

"Were either of you Goths in high school, by any chance?" he asked.

"Goth?" Sherlock asked.

" White face make-up, black hair…" John trailed off, looking up at Sherlock. Pale skin, dark hair, cold eyes, black clothing. "Uh… never mind then."

"No, I didn't get any piercings or things like that." Molly said. "But all the guys I dated were Goth."

John really wanted a light bulb to appear over his head and turn on. He closed his eyes for a second, then looked up. Sadly, it wasn't there. Nonetheless, Molly's attraction to Sherlock suddenly made an incredible amount of sense. He was a natural born Goth.

As the doors swung open, cold air bit into the exposed skin on John's face and hands. His shoulders instantly shrugged up and his hands dove into his pockets, seeking the warmth of his body. The sky had changed from its molted gray to a deep black, the occasional star a fleck of light standing out from the abyss. It scared him, space. How it was bigger than anything he could contemplate, how it was airless and permanently dark and the stars that were so pretty from earth were so far apart from one another that they didn't look the same up there. No gravity, nothing holding him down. It must feel like falling without out ever touching the ground.

He felt himself purposefully pull closer to Sherlock, brushing his shoulder against his friend's arm, reminding himself where he was, and that he was safely weighed down to his world.

"Do you want me to carry that?" John asked.

Sherlock looked patronizingly at him. "You'll pull a muscle."

"No, Sherlock, I won't. Give me the bag."

"No. You're too short. You'll let him drag on the ground. He needs to look his best for his big night out."

"For God's sake, Sherlock! I'm not that short! I'm the same height as Molly—"

"—who is female and is naturally smaller than the average male." He responded.

"Bloody hell." John swore under his breath, letting London swirl around him, the noises and scents of the night blurring together all at once.

They walked in silence for another thirty seconds before John burst out with: "I don't think you appreciate me enough."

"Don't I?"

"No, no you don't. I go through hell for you on a daily basis, and have risked my life for you many times, and all you can do is crack short jokes."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sorry, John," he said, sarcasm thickly coating his voice, "would you like a hug?"

"Yes," John replied snippily, "I would, but you happen to be carrying—" he caught himself quickly, "—Molly's bag."

Sherlock frowned, sarcasm still in his voice. "Then whatever can I do to earn your sought after forgiveness?"

John wrinkled his brow. "No more body parts in the freezer."

Molly made a small choking noise, her face covered in shock. "That's where you keep them?"

Her question was left unanswered. "No bullets in the wall," John continued. "Nothing on the wall, actually, except pictures."

"Any pictures?" Sherlock asked, a smile attacking the corners of his mouth. "Any form of images?"

John shrugged. He knew he was submitting to letting crime scene photos of bludgeoned victims be framed on their walls, but at least he didn't have to pay for that.

"As long as no damage occurs to our flat."

"Is there a rule about deadly chemicals, too?"

"Yeah, they aren't allowed either."

"I think that's too much. Me under appreciating you doesn't cover all that."

"What can I do to forbid deadly chemicals?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "You could stop whining when I borrow your laptop. That would be nice."

John scowled. "Fine. If not for me, I'll do it for Mrs. Hudson."

Having walked a few blocks away from the hospital, John waved at a taxi, which quickly pulled over. Sherlock walked around to the trunk of the car, popping it open and shoving the body in it. Molly had already climbed into the cab and John was about to follow when he heard Sherlock call his name. He politely asked the driver to wait, then jogged around to the back of the car. Sherlock had unzipped the bag slightly, revealing a sliver of the corpse's face which he guarded from public eyes using his body.

"What the hell are you doing?" John hissed at him.

"Just checking on him. What was his name, again?"

"Caleb Fryer."

"Right. John, as a medical man, should Caleb look like that?"

John peered at the corpse, whose mouth had fallen slightly open and his eyes slightly more visible, as though he was gawking at the world.

John frowned. "You probably jostled him around too much. Molly performed an autopsy, Sherlock. He's dead."

"Dead dead?"

"Dead dead."

Sherlock nodded, zipping up the bag and shutting the trunk with a soft click. The two of them climbed swiftly into the cab, Sherlock's mind whizzing at a million miles an hour, the bronzed gears in his brain steaming and sparks flying off them from friction. John settled comfortably into the seat, which smelt vaguely of moth balls. His stomach was flipping inside him, and while he knew that this wasn't a medical phenomenon, he still worried he'd be sick all over the cab. He chewed into his lip thickly, worrying immensely about committing an actual crime.

Yes, he was unhappy to admit that he'd always been the type of friend throughout his childhood to refrain from acting out and straying from the straight and narrow. As far as he was concerned, there was no real need to jaywalk across the street. The rules had been created for a reason, after all, and they risked getting hit by a car. He'd be the guy to talk his mate out of leaving with the waitress at the bar, who'd later be discovered as to having several STD's. The guy who saved everyone's asses, the guy with the strict moral code. The guy who played it safe. The only one who never really lived.

Since meeting Sherlock, he'd broken all the rules, never once playing it safe. He jaywalked often, now, sometimes walking dead in the center of the road running parallel to the side walk. The first time he'd done it he'd gripped Sherlock by the elbow as hard as he could, using his friend for balance as they walked along the yellow lines, cars streaking past them and the wind causing his clothes to flap loudly.

"Are you insane?" he yelled up at his human shield. After all, if they're going to get hit by a car, it better be Sherlock who feels it.

His friend turned slightly and gave John what had to be the best smile in the world—his brown curls blowing across his eyes and the sun making them shine brighter than ever, the skin at the edges of them crinkling in happiness. "Says the guy who's following me!" he shouted back, and instantly John felt the ice in his chest melt and crack. Every time he feared breaking the rules, feared getting hurt or hurting someone else, he thought of that smile. The warm wind. His friend protecting him. And, above all, the sensation of feeling incredibly alive.

That smile drifted into his mind now, and he was glad he sat in between two people, their arms pressed against his, warming him in the coldness of the night. He couldn't look out the window, and needed something—anything, really, - to distract him.

"Sherlock?" he asked, the other man pressed against the window, his arm resting against the frame and his fingers pushed to his lips.

"Mmm," was his only response.

"Do you ever stop thinking?"

Sherlock frowned, casting his gaze to John. "What do you mean by 'stop thinking'?"

"Like, zone out. Relax. Daydream."

"What would I have to daydream about?"

"I dunno. That's what I was wondering."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What do you daydream about?"

"Not much, actually. Usually elevator music and clouds."

"Fascinating," he said, then returned his gaze to the window. "I'll add that to the secret book of useless things you tell me about yourself that I'm writing. I hope to get it published someday."

John ignored the comment. "So you don't daydream, then?"

"I really can't waste my time with such trivial information that daydreaming conjures up."

"You might be less bored less often if you tried."

Molly shifted slightly beside John, unsure as to whether or not to dive into the conversation. She bit her lip slightly, unsure of the events about to unfold within the next hour.

John, however, remained placid, now entirely calm. He let elevator music drift into his head and thought of clouds and the most fantastic smile on earth. After all, life is scary and painful no matter which way you look at it. Sometimes that is the best thing about it.

The darkness surrounding the mental institute reminded John of a tiger stalking its prey—lethal and smooth, and seemed to consume more and more of the building's features as the seconds ticked past. It curled and coiled and seemed in every way to be perfectly alive. Without the lights and warmth of London cast protectively around him, the entire situation reminded him of Afghanistan. Except, this time, if all hell broke loose all he had was a somewhat large handgun; which compared to semi-automatic machine guns wasn't entirely comforting. All his backup was armed with was his intellect and occasional witty comments, but that would most definitely not save their asses from two femme fatals with sick desires lurking in their minds.

He opened his mouth as they climbed out of the cab, but then bit his lip so as to not say Sherlock's name. If someone inside heard, as unlikely as that was, Mycroft would have to go to more… extreme methods in order to cover this up. John didn't want to have yet another crime resting on his conscience before he closed his eyes to sleep away the dreariness weighing him down. He didn't feel it at that moment, but he knew it was hanging around the corner, ready to jump him once his heart rate slows and the panic shrivels away.

While John pays the cabby, Sherlock strides casually around the back and pulls out the bag.

"Do you three work here, then?" The cabbie asks, attempting to make casual conversation.

John's breath faltered in his chest. "Uh… yeah. Yeah we do, actually. We, uh… clean. Yes. We're janitors."

The cabbie eyed Sherlock slightly, and John cursed himself silently. Sherlock looked nothing like a janitor in his long, dark coat and carrying Molly's Yves St Laurent bag.

"He's a doctor here, though." Instantly the cabbie's face lit up with understanding. "Ahh, I see! You lot are carpooling!"

John smiled. He hadn't even thought of that, but when people want to believe nothing suspicious is going on, they create explanations to satisfy this want. "Exactly," John said, giving the man his warmest smile. If he had been Sherlock, he would have noticed that he'd seen this man lurking around Mycroft's office and sitting in his brother's car before and would've come to the conclusion that this man was employed by Mycroft. But he wasn't Sherlock, and he had no idea that the entire purpose of the conversation was to confirm his cover story. So he handed the cabbie his fare and added a slight tip, unaware as to the frown the man gave the cash as the three of them strode toward the institute.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with this?" He muttered under his breath, watching as the figures slipped closer and closer to the only source of light in the neighborhood, their details smudging in his eyes the further they strode. Feeling mild panic in his chest (his boss would kill him if he let anything happen to his little brother) he quickly dialed Mycroft's number.

"Boss?" He asked into the cold, silver device pressed to his ear.

"Yes, Donalds, what do you want?" Despite the harshness of his words, his tone remained perfectly warm, a product Donalds assumed he gained from sharing his childhood with Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, does your brother have a clue as to what he's doing?"

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Finally, "I'd like to think so, but chances are no, he's figuring it out as he goes along."

He failed to believe what he'd just heard. "You mean like adlibbing? One of the most brilliant men in the country figures out the most puzzling of crimes by ADLIBBING?" His voice was incredulous and broke on the last word. He could hear the smile in his boss's speech as he spoke again.

"He is a Holmes, after all." Donalds remained silent for a few moments, processing the details of what he'd just been told. Then he shrugged. Sherlock had survived previous encounters with murderers, thieves and drug dealers. He simply had to rely on his superior's word that he could handle it.

"Alright, Sir. Should I wait nearby?"

"Don't bother. He loathes my interference as it is, and the only reason he's allowed us to edit the video footage is because Dr. Watson called me."

"Which one would he be, again?"

"The short, stocky fellow who Sherlock looks at adoringly."

"Ah. Well, thanks Sir, and sorry to bug you."

"No problem at all, Donalds."

As he started the car and pulled away from the institute, he became vaguely aware of the lights on the lower floor being shut off.

Sherlock's gloved hand rested on the wall, a single index finger extended from where he flipped the switch, and his face was nearly invisible to John. He turned to Molly, who's teeth were the only visible part of her, as her mouth was stretched into a tight but legitimate grin. John sighed. Here they were, planting a body in a mental institution to be molested by necrophiliac in order for Sherlock to solve his puzzle, breaking and entering and violating someone no longer alive. And all she could do was grin, because she was on an adventure and Sherlock was there with her. He scowled, pretending to be above her glee over something so dark, but had to bite his lip in order not to match her expression.

He could barely make out the outline of the secretary's desk in the dark, but it was obvious she wasn't here, as he only heard three sets of breaths, all measured and deep, and they were only audible due to the fact they were the only noise. All of it was too soft for the CCTV to pick up, and Sherlock handed both of them a pair of latex gloves each, and Molly and John quietly tugged them on. No visual, no noises, no prints. Even with the security cameras mounted on every corner, it would be hard for them to interpret any footage drawn except for footsteps and blurry shapes. Even with night vision (which John doubted they had installed) very little could be confirmed.

Sherlock jerked his head at John, who instantly drew out his gun and took slow, steady steps around the room, confirming that there indeed was no one with them. He nodded back at Sherlock, and then continued to lead the way down the hall. He bit his lip as he approached to elevator, looking back at Sherlock with uncertainty in his gaze. The lights in the elevator couldn't be flicked off with a switch, and there wasn't exactly any place to hide. Sherlock leaned quickly in and whispered, "Stairs." It was the quietest he'd ever heard Sherlock speak, and even Molly, who was barely a foot behind Sherlock, couldn't hear him. John nodded and turned away from Sherlock, taking more measured steps forward in the dark. About a meter away from the stairs, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm, yanking him back towards him. Instantly, John's heart began to rapidly pound faster in his chest, alarmed at the threat of danger.

He bit his breaths back, forbidding himself from alerting anyone else in the building that he was here. "John," Sherlock murmured into the darkness, and John was certain no one could hear them. "Yeah?" he whispered back. "What's missing?" John rolled his eyes. No, they weren't being followed. No, there was no axe murder hiding behind Molly planning on jumping up and attacking them. No, Sherlock wasn't saving him from impending danger. He was attempting to wow John with a brilliant deduction.

John had to clench his hands into fists and dig his nails deeply into his palms in order to prevent himself from swearing loudly and ripping Sherlock's face off in a chaste attack.

"What, Sherlock? What's missing?"

"Antiseptic."

John froze, inhaling deeply from his nose. He was right—the cold empty halls were scentless, and John didn't find himself slightly sick to the stomach.

Sherlock's slate eyes met his own. "The smell of antiseptic wouldn't be strong enough to nauseate a doctor, of all people, unless it had been applied in doses far higher than needed. Upon smelling it, people would be repulsed, something you could see. Who would enjoy repulsion and illness in other people?"

"A sadist."

"Precisely. A janitor wouldn't apply these chemicals in such strong doses as they are exposed to them too."

"Who else controls how much cleaning product is applied?"

"Someone who controls everything, more or less. Someone with access to security cameras and would know when the night patrol shifts the early morning patrol and security is at its weakest."

John paused, incredibly confused. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock beamed at his friend. "No, unlikely not. A secretary, however…"

John swore under his breath, twisting away for a moment, trying to regain his composure. Then he shrugged. "She did seem like quite the prick, didn't she?"

"People have said the same about me."

John smirked. "Yes, yes they have."

**Slightly different tone to this chapter... the next chapter is closer to the first two, but let me know whether or not you like it. Next chapter is the last one...**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

John felt stronger now, wielding the knowledge of who murdered the patients. He felt more like the predator and less like the prey, less exposed by the liquid black that pooled around his eyes, disabling his sight. Unlike his usual routine with Sherlock, instead of following him loyally he was leading the way, and he took his job with every degree of seriousness.

Upon entering a room, he'd hold his breath and listen deeply into the abyss, taking measured steps forward when he felt it safe. His gun was drawn but was held by his knee with a stiff arm, and the rest of the muscles in his body were pulled taunt, making him appear leaner in the darkness.

Had Sherlock been anyone else but himself, he would have been concerned for his friend's resort to military tactics and mild symptoms of post-traumatic stress. But sadly, Molly noted, he wasn't.

"Knock it off, G I Joe. There are no members of the Taliban here to watch you flex your golden muscles," Sherlock hissed at the man in front of him.

"Then get your gangly teenage hands off my ass and stop griping about me trying to protect you," John hissed back.

"Protect me? Great, Mycroft has put his little Mycroft-chips in your brain too," he paused non-chalantly, "and I'm not groping your ass."

"Pardon me," John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "brushing your hands against my ass. This is sexual harassment."

"My hands," Sherlock replied indignantly, "Are nowhere near the lower half of your body, and I most definitely don't want them to be."

John opened his mouth to reply with a witty remark, then shut it. Hard. "Molly?" He whispered.

"Yes?" She whispered back.

"Are you touching me?"

"How could I be? I'm behind Sherlock."

He felt his entire body go stiff, and his heart stop dead in his chest. If Sherlock and Molly weren't touching him, who was?

He shut his eyes, turning around slowly, his now rapid heart beating loudly in his ears as though he could hear it being played over loudspeakers. Then, gradually, he allowed his eyelids to gracefully sweep up over his murky brown eyes to reveal the owner of the pale set of hands now touching the side of his legs. He traced the origin of the hands up to…

…. Molly's Yves St Laurent bag.

"Ooh, looks like you have an admirer there, John."

The pale hands of Caleb Fryer drooped out of the bag and resembled dead flowers, long shriveled and lifeless.

John shot Sherlock a glare so fiery it could have burned down all of London in one heated glance.

"You…idiot," his words left his mouth slowly and quietly, but shook with rage as they did. "You…left… the bag…unzipped."

Sherlock grinned. "Yes, yes I did. I was worried it might get a bit stuffy in there for him."

"He's dead, Sherlock," John hissed at him.

"Almost all my friends are," he responded coyly.

"I'm pretty closed to being, too. You almost gave me a heart attack, you…you…"

"Me what?"

"You psychopath!"

Sherlock ground his teeth in rage.

"I'm a sociopath. Psychopaths don't care about other people, and lack the ability to love."

"That sounds like you to the tee."

"Sociopaths can both care and love, but have a hard time understanding the emotions and reactions of others and fail to comprehend the mild complexities of society."

John rolled his eyes at the dictionary-like explanation.

"Whatever, Sherlock, whatever. If you're done playing with the corpse now, I'd like to leave Caleb here for his big night out."

Sherlock returned John's glare and then marched forward, taking the lead. John sulked along behind him, disappointed at his new-found role having been yanked away. Nevertheless, he strained his ears trying to listen for voices and noises beyond the ones created by his companions. Sherlock yanked open the cold metallic door separating them from the staircase that lay beyond, and were welcomed by the familiar scent of over applied cleaning supplies.

A shiver traveled down John's spine.

Light from the windows pooled in here, and while there were no security cameras to catch them in here, he knew that being caught wasn't their biggest concern. The night cleaners wouldn't have applied such a sickening amount of antiseptic to a stairway unless they had been given direct instructions to do so, and there was only one person who would give that instruction.

Which meant—according to Sherlock's deduction—both killers were in the building.

"Sherlock, I think the secretary is here too."

"Yes John, I also have a nose and an IQ with more than two digits."

He rolled his eyes, still satisfied will his own deduction. He tried his best to recall how she looked—her hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful, her voice dull, how her skin seemed so insipid. But he'd blurred her out, focused on Sherlock's deductions instead. He'd said that killers are statistically more likely to be male. Yet here they were, faced with two female killers that would likely kill again.

His thought process was interrupted by a sudden wheeze escaping Sherlock. He looked up at the man, who was several steps ahead of him and laughed at the expression on his face. He let out yet another wheeze of a breath.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stopped and turned around to face him, but didn't give his usual deadpan response. Instead, he just stood there, his calculating eyes unusually flat.

"Do you have asthma?" John asked. Sherlock glared at him in response. Suddenly it made sense why he always panted longer than John. He felt like clubbing himself over the head for not making the medical assumption earlier.

John quickly ascended the stairs, grabbing Caleb and throwing him casually over his shoulder. "Molly, watch him, would you? I'm going to run to the fourth floor and leave the body by the door."

"No problem."

Instantly, it occurred to John that it would be easier in the future to have a third person with them to babysit Sherlock so he didn't end up killing himself one way or another. Hurrying up the stairs, he began to feel the familiar sensation of intense heat running through his quadriceps and raspy breaths beginning to escape his lungs. Up and up and up he went, his eyes on the tiled stairs beneath him, his pace never faltering, and his heartbeat increasing by the minute. The other muscles in his body began to ache in sympathy, and his head joined the throbbing beat as the antiseptic scent invaded his nose yet again.

The pain and the darkness combined reminded him of a twisted nightmare without images, the type he often experienced before living with Sherlock. Running upwards on and on, no light except for the ghostly shapes shone in by the window, the only audible sound his hoarse breathing. He felt himself wondering when it would all end and when he'd wake up to the warmth of his sheets, hot coffee and Sherlock's newest experiment splattered all over the flat. But it wasn't a dream, and he couldn't pinch himself or click his ruby red heels together and chant, "There's no place like home." Instead of being bombarded by witches and flying monkeys, however, he was in pursuit of killers that if he didn't catch in time would become serial killers.

The entire situation did remind him of the Wizard of Oz. Sherlock would be the Tin man, who had a brain and wanted a heart, (or was it the other way around?) he would be the Scarecrow, who had a heart but wanted a brain, and Molly would be… Toto? He couldn't be sure.

Mycroft had to be the Wizard, with all his false bravado and presence, Donovan and Anderson flying monkeys, Mrs. Hudson was the Lion, and Lestrade could be Dorothy. Yes, he'd make a fantastic Dorothy.

_Oh my God,_ John thought to himself,_ I must be going bloody mad._ Stress. Probably just stress.

Upon reaching the fourth floor, John's lungs stopped heaving and his muscles ceased to ache, but his heart pounded even faster and the hollow feeling in his chest returned. He twisted his body around, attempting to see if there was anyone else with him on this level, but he was alone. Sherlock and Molly were two floors down—two floors away from saving him worst case scenario. Tonight, worst case scenario felt more like most possible scenario.

He'd always had back up before. He'd always been the back up with Sherlock, but now he was just plain alone. Had he been anyone else he would've seen this as an opportunity to prove himself. But he was John; shy, quiet, friendly John, who would never be defiant or rebellious. Just John. That had been the way Sarah had thought of him. Now, she barely thought of him at all.

He opened the door to the fourth floor just a crack and slipped his middle and his index finger through it, quickly flipping the switch and casting the cold, desolate hallway into complete darkness. The patients in this hallway had been moved due to the murders, so no complaints rose from their rooms. He swung the door open fully then, shocked as to the coldness of the steel under his fingertips. Shuffling forward blindly, he took five steps forward before swinging the bag off his shoulder and unzipping it. Caleb remained in the exact state he'd been in the morgue—stark naked and entirely lifeless. John felt slightly uncomfortable touching him, so he settled with slipping his fingers under Caleb's arm pits and dragging him out of the bag until he was lying on the linoleum floor. His eyes stared up at John accusingly, his lips slightly open from the rough manner he'd been carried in. Instantly, John felt incredibly guilty.

"Um, hello there," he said to Caleb. He got no response in return.

"Listen, I'm really sorry about this. I'm sure you in no way deserved this." How could he know? He felt stupid doing this, but he knew it had to be done.

"Well, I never met you, so I suppose I can't say that. Maybe you were a total arsehole," he whispered at the corpse. "Either way, I hoped you enjoyed your, um… night out."

He hauled the bag of the floor, zipping it up again. As he turned to leave, he murmured a quiet, "Have fun," at Caleb. Could corpses have fun? He had no idea, but he doubted it. Oh well. It really wasn't any of his concern.

He reached into his pocket, delicately placing the button shaped camera to view Caleb. Where Sherlock had gotten it, he had no idea, but he had no intention of asking him. Ever since moving in with Sherlock, he'd learned not to ask questions he didn't want the answer to.

Luckily, he heard the footsteps before he saw the owner of the sound, and slipped through the door way as stealthily as possible. The guards were switching at the front of the building, and since all patients in the wing the murders had occurred in had been moved, they had no reason to patrol this area. It had to be Melissa Hodges then, and from his squatting position behind the door he could hear her sudden intake of breath upon seeing Caleb. Even in the dark, he knew she'd be caught with a corpse on camera. Likely Sherlock had lifted the button camera off of Mycroft, meaning it had excellent night vision.

Quiet sounds were audible through the thickness of the door, but all they could be interpreted as was shuffles. She'd made sure she was barely making any noise if someone were to be behind the door, and John slowed his breathing until it became quiet enough that he could barely hear it himself. He couldn't move, or he'd risk her hearing him. Damn it, she'd come a minute too early—otherwise he'd already have left the building and could just slip away into the night. His heart pounded faster. What if she decided to open the door? What if she wanted to make sure? He had to work to keep his breathing silent now, and suddenly the darkness that had frightened him on the way here no longer seemed thick enough, like a thin blanket on a cold night. Where was Sherlock? Had he left the building yet? Likely he was waiting near an exit patiently for John, Molly staying close to his side.

The second set of footsteps he heard chilled his blood to temperatures far below zero, all of his muscles stiffening and yanking him up into a standing position, begging him to run, to find Sherlock. The second person behind the door wasn't a security guard, but was a secretary with a taste for pain.

"Melissa," he heard her say, speaking softly to the woman on the floor. She got no response from Melissa, and John could swear the shuffling increased.

"Melissa," her tone was iron, then. Her companion remained silent.

A loud slap reverberated from behind the door, and the shuffling ceased instantly. Every fibre of John's body begged him to run, but if the secretary heard him, it would be over in a split second.

"Brianna?" Melissa asked up at the other woman, her voice filled with hurt and mild betrayal.

"Where the hell did you find this?" Brianna hissed at her, and John could feel her gesturing at Caleb. He wanted to shut his eyes and plug his ears, just as he had done as a teenager when he reached the highest part of the roller coaster he'd been dragged on by his friends. But this time there was no giant steel structure that would carry him to the ground safely. No, if he closed his eyes and plugged his ears this time he was more likely to get killed.

"It was on the floor here."

"And you just assumed it wasn't placed here? That a corpse appeared out of nowhere just for you?" The venom in her words acted like a paralytic for John, even with a solid steel door barring the way between them.

"I…I t-though y-you left it f-for me!" The nervous stutter Melissa had spoken with this morning at the crime scene returned with a vengeance. "It's n-not l-like the CCTV can s-see me in the d-dark," she tried to reassure her friend.

"No, but they will have left something that can…" her voice trailed off, and John new she had spotted the button.

"Shit," she swore coarsely under her breath, and John instinctively reached behind his back to touch the cold metal of his gun, reassuring himself it was still tucked in the waist band of his jeans where he left it.

Silence filled the air behind the door for several minutes, eluding John into thinking they'd left, but his military instincts told him different, that they simply weren't moving. His heart was very close to breaching the record amount of most beats per minute.

Finally, Melissa spoke. "I can't go to jail, Brianna."

Brianna was silent, but John sensed she was nodding her head. "I know, love, I know."

What happened next was yet another thing John wishes he doesn't remember.

Behind the door, which he can't see, Brianna slides her hand under Melissa's chin.

"Remember I love you, okay?" Brianna whispers.

"Okay," Melissa responds loyally.

He holds his breath, blood rushing to all his limbs and his head pounding in confusion. What the hell was she talking about? It made no sense, the sudden flood of affection, the sweet words in the darkness ebbing from her mouth when all that had come before was harshness.

"Wait!" Melissa says suddenly, breaking the silence. "Can't we just crush the button?"

"It transmits to another location," her tone goes cold yet again. "There's nothing we can do."

Melissa sighs. "I love you too," she says to her friend.

"Good night, Melissa." Before John can absorb her words and decode their meaning, a shot rings out.

_Blood,_ he finds himself thinking,_ why can I taste blood?_

He can taste it before he feels the pain, and upon opening his eyes he realizes how hard he bit into his lip. It dribbles slowly down his chin, and he's quick to wipe it away with his sleeve. Shock. He was in shock. _Breathe, John, breathe!_ But he didn't. He couldn't. Because he had just heard a mercy kill, right down to the victim's last breath, and now there was yet another body lying in blood on the linoleum floor of the Mental Institution. Guilt washed over him, yet the little voice in his head that sounded far too much like Sherlock reminded him, _you didn't put the gun in her hands, John, and you didn't pull the trigger. You put the body there to help prevent other lives from being taken, and the girl who just died was going to help take them._

Instantly his vision cleared, as though someone had focused the lens on a camera. He had missed his chance to run, and while they had the murder on tape, Brianna was standing on the other side of the door, gun in hand.

He pulled out his gun from his waistband, and the large weapon instantly found its home in the palm of his hands. Unlike the rest of the room, it was warm and almost shuddered as he flicked the safety off. Adrenaline had poisoned his veins, and he stretched in the darkness, waiting. Tension filled the air and it crackled like electricity, and never before in his life had John ever felt so obliged to take another human life.

So when the large, metal door to the stairway he'd been cowering in swung open and Brianna slinked through it, he blinked slowly, weapon raised, then looked her slowly in the eyes. Green, he decided. They were green, with a thin rim of yellow outlining her irises. As a medical man, he knew that her pupils should be large due to the darkness of the building, but they were pinpoints. She was in pain, and John noticed that the smaller gun in her hand had bounced back after she fired it into her ribcage.

"They tend to have a bit of a kickback when you're not used to firing them," he said to her, noticing the blood droplets covering her blouse and pale skin. "Very different from poison."

She shook slightly, and the gun she had aimed at him quivered slightly in her hand.

"You," she said, her voice hoarse and low, rage barely contained in her features. "You. This is your fault."

He gave her a half smirk. "You pulled the trigger."

She barred her teeth slightly, and began to shake harder, her expression twisting into a grimace. "They would've ripped her apart in jail. I saved her. You," she paused, jerking the gun at him, breathing heavily, "you planted that fucking corpse, and the camera!"

"Mmm. You're right about that, but you know what you're wrong about?"

She said nothing, but he heard the safety click off.

"The camera doesn't transmit to another location. It just records."

Silence had never felt as thick as it did right then. Brianna's eyes slipped closed, and he could almost see the emotional turmoil vaporising outwards from her skin. His skin prickled, wondering if she'd see through his lie. No camera that size could just record, but she had less chance of shooting him if she blamed herself instead.

Finally, she raised her lowered head, a new light in her eyes.

"I don't need Melissa. It doesn't matter."

"Needing someone and wanting them are two very different things."

Then she gave him a toothy grin. "Do you know what I _want_ to do? Shoot you in the head."

"Do you know what I want? Some pie, but I don't see that happening either."

"Put your gun down and I might let you live."

"Why? I'm an ex-sniper who just returned from combat in Afghanistan. I'm about ninety nine per cent sure I have better aim than you.'

Her grin grew, and then she pulled the trigger. The bullet flew to the left of John's ear. He flinched slightly, but didn't move. She shot again, this time skimming the hem of his pants. Now it was John's turn to smile.

"Third time's the charm?" He offered.

She froze her entire body, slid her legs until they were planted firmly apart, and aimed the gun at the middle of his chest. No chance to miss. Whether he lived or not was entirely dependent on where she hit. He felt moisture grow on his hand, reminding of the gun in his hand. He pointed it directly at her chest, mirroring her position. Whoever shot first…

He was vaguely aware of the loud noise erupting from the barrel of her gun, and even less aware of leaping to his right. He was, however, very aware of falling down the stairs, gun skidding out of his hands. His ribs ached in agony, and he winced as he lifted his head in agony. She stood above him, her pupils enlarging and her grin growing as they did.

In a solid movement, she flicked his gun even farther out of his reach, throwing her own with it. One hand buried itself in his hair, tugging him up on awkward angle while she kneeled to be at his level. Their faces were inches apart, and he saw out of the corner of his eye her reaching for her pocket. A knife was unveiled, previously hidden there.

Feeling hysterical with pain, he said the only thing that came to mind: "Ooh, shiny _and_ pointy! Clearly someone got their money's worth at Weapons R Us."

She ignored him. "I'm about to put you in the most pain you have ever experienced."

"Why, do you have some type of ancient torture device hidden in your sock?"

He felt the cold metal bite firmly into his shoulder, and he bit his lip, restraining himself from crying out.

"You should have stayed home tonight, you tiny little son of a bitch," she hissed at him.

"What… did you… just call me?"

"Tiny. Tin-y. You know, like short. Small."

All pain was instantly forgotten, and John unleashed a sharp uppercut to her jaw, sending her flying backwards. He reached upwards, gripping the railing ferociously and hauling himself up. By the time she had gained her balance, he was launching himself at her yet again in a flying tackle. Her head bounced off the door loudly, and he yelped in pain when her knife sliced his hip.

He slid backwards from the wall, highly aware of the blood spilling from his leg onto the floor. He pressed his hand against the ground, pulling himself to his feet as rapidly as possible before her.

"You know, my mom taught me not to hit girls," he said cockily to the dishevelled figure standing before him. "But I don't think that applies to you."

He swung his fist forward, hitting air and then tumbling backwards and smacking his head on the ground.

Brianna bent swiftly and grabbed her gun, then crouched over him and pressed the muzzle into his chest.

He closed his eyes, preparing himself for pain, and deadly calm when he heard the bullet launch itself from the gun. The sound was highly explosive; he could smell the blood around him and felt even more pressure from Brianna's body. But there was no pain. No. Pain. Where had it gone? Last time he'd been shot, he was moaning in agony on the ground, never having felt anything quite like it.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, and was met by Brianna's face, which was twisted in agony. She was slumped over his body, and upon looking closer he could see the blood escaping from her torso and not his own. He pressed against the wound, noting it had entered from the back. He twisted his head to peer into the darkness behind her, trying to see the shooter.

Sherlock. It had to be. But the face in the darkness he'd so desperately hoped to see was not his best friend. The person he'd caught a glimpse of shouldn't have been there at all; should've been slumped dead behind the door. Melissa, clutching her own stomach in agony. John felt his jaw go slack.

"I don't need you either," she hissed at her friend.

Then the room went even darker.

The rest of the night blurred before his eyes—Sherlock, Molly, ambulance, strange lights, medical smells, everything whirling around him as though the whole world had been thrown into a giant blender. It was a bit nauseating, the way he ached and spun around and around and around until he was sure he was going to hurl. Finally, he just closed his eyes and let himself spin, letting his mind fill with elevator music and dreams of attractive girls that didn't get their kicks by murdering by people.

He wasn't sure he wanted to open his eyes when he woke up. His nose told him he was in a hospital and his ears confirmed that by allowing him to hear the beeping of his heart rate monitor. He knew he was going to end up in a whole world of trouble for a long list of crimes. Likely court, too. God, he hated court rooms and juries and all the useless legal procedure he'd been exposed to from Law and Order.

So he kept his eyes shut, listening to the world around him.

"Does he always drool when he sleeps?" He hears Lestrade ask in his coarse voice.

"Only when he's missed his last meal," Sherlock grumbled, clearly uninterested in the current conversation.

The next voice he heard surprised him "How do you expect to wake him up, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

"That entirely depends on what day of the week it is. I have a calendar all drawn up."

John mentally frowned, enjoying listening in on the conversation.

"Improvise," Mycroft said, a disdainful air in his voice.

Lestrade gave a slight cough, followed by, "I can see where Sherlock gets it from."

"Are you mocking our family?" Mycroft poised, harshness in his voice.

"No Mycroft," Sherlock growled unhappily, "he's just mocking you. John," he began calmly, "I'm afraid I have some bad news. I broke something of yours, and I fully intended to go replace it, but the manager at the store told me it was an original."

John felt his rip open instantly and he sat up in bed. "What did you break, Sherlock?" he demanded.

"Your teddy bear," he said slowly.

"How did you break my teddy bear?"

"If I told you that you'd get even more upset."

"Sherlock!"

"Don't worry, I think I've got a plan. I'll give you Freddy until your bear gets…" he trailed off, looking for the word, "…unbroken. Agreed?"

John set him a frosty look.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"I don't want to sleep with a skull."

"I think you'll find you barely even notice a difference."

"I'm going to smack you."

Sherlock smiled. "No you aren't."

A loud slap echoed across the room. Sherlock rubbed his face slightly, then patted John on the head. "Glad you're back to normal.'

"John, about last night…" Lestrade said. It took every ounce of his willpower not to gulp.

Mycroft instantly sent him a glare that passed through the building and into the air, killing all plants and small animals within a five minute radius of the hospital. Lestrade closed his mouth and stepped backwards slightly.

"…Erm, good job." He said, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's.

After about thirty seconds of awkward silence, a nurse walked in to check on John.

"You're visiting after hours…"she began, her eyes landing on Mycroft, then going silent.

"Do you know everybody?" Lestrade asked him.

"He's slutty like that." Sherlock stated calmly, his attention turning to the nurse. "When do I get to take my broken midget home?"

"Careful, Sherlock. The last person that called him short is in ICU," Mycroft warned.

"And Melissa?" John asked him.

"Wasn't there when I got there," Sherlock stated.

"What do you mean, she wasn't there? She was half dead and bleeding out!"

"She knew she'd live, which meant she'd go to jail, and she couldn't risk that. She killed the only person that would know where she'd run to." Sherlock said calmly. "We underestimated her."

"And Molly?"

"Never wants to leave the morgue again."

"Where were you when I was fighting the lunatic all by myself?"

"Being chased by a thick-headed security guard."

John rubbed his eyes with his hands. "Anything else?" he asked Sherlock, who was looming above him almost protectively.

"Yes. Since when is there a Weapons R Us?"

"You watched the tape, then."

"Mm. Some terrible action movies called. They want their lines back."

Something occurred to him very suddenly.

"Um, Mycroft?"

"Yes John?"

"I meant to ask you… are you free this weekend?"

Mycroft went silent for a moment. "Are you asking me on a date?" He asked, his face confused.

"No. Not me. I'm asking you for someone else. We traded the body for a date with you."

His brow furrowed. "Who…what? Who wanted to go on a date with me?"

"Molly Hooper?"

Mycroft frowned, deep in thought. Lestrade was beginning to wish he hadn't come. This was almost too awkward to bear. The only more awkward thing he could think of would be him hugging Sherlock.

"Fine," Mycroft says casually, "seeing as she has such good taste."

John looked at Sherlock, then thought of Moriarty. He grinned up at Mycroft.

"Not so much, I'm afraid."

~End~

**Sorry if the fighting scene seemed a bit too much... I'm still struggling with those. Constructive critisism is appreciated. **

**Anyways, I hoped you enjoyed my story! A second one will be quick to follow, so if you have any requests, speak up while you still can.**

**Happy New Year!**


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